


when fates collide

by finnickyfox



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, BAMF Stiles, Established Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Everybody Lives, Fate & Destiny, Fix-It, Left Hand Peter Hale, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, POV Multiple, Pack Dynamics, Plot Twists, Secret Past, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, The Hale Fire (Teen Wolf)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24504919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnickyfox/pseuds/finnickyfox
Summary: “Hi, I’m Stiles. Pronouns are he/him. I like long walks in the forest where I don’t get eaten and my idea of a good time is pizza and action movies.”The pack stares.The Guardian drops the playful tone and recites, “Stiles. Trained in witchcraft, Druidic law, and mentored to succession by a certified Mage, as well as cultured by a water nymph, a pixie, and a classified Fae. My status is a Spark.”Peter's breath is stolen half-way through the Guardian speaking. His head spins, thoughts jumbled as they get caught around the incredulity of nymph, pixie, and Fae. Chris' fingers tighten around Peter's in matching wonder.“Most impressive,” Talia says. “Stiles is a title?”The Guardian laughs. “No, it’s my name.”-Beacon Hills has been waiting a century for its Guardian to appear. Finally, in 2005, the Nemeton awakens and a human Spark stumbles into the Hale pack's lives. Peter and Chris struggle with the unusual pull they feel to the savior that's intent on avoiding them. Meanwhile, Stiles has trouble forgetting his past as he navigates a role he was never meant for.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Chris Argent/Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & The Hale Pack
Comments: 166
Kudos: 1145





	1. Chapter 1

➼ ➼ ➼

Chris wakes up and starts to roll over, letting sleep drag him back under, when he registers the cold draft on his back. He sits up, eyes open and darting around the empty bedroom. “Peter?”

There’s a thump from somewhere farther in the apartment. Chris is out of bed and crossing the room when Peter appears in the doorway, nearly running Chris over in his haste. 

“Peter, what’s—”

“The Nemeton. It’s activating. I felt it in my chest.” Peter’s eyes are wild, wide and shifting between regular blue and glowing. 

“The Nemeton? The Beacon Hills Nemeton?”

“No, Christopher, the other Nemeton I have a pack bond with.”

Chris ignores Peter’s snark in favor of getting dressed. He’s only a few moments into the anticipation and his nerves are just as frayed. They work together quickly and quietly as they ready to head out for the Preserve. A small swell of pride settles in Chris’ chest over how easily they move in sync. They’re out the door in a handful of minutes. 

Chris takes over driving since Peter continues to struggle with his shift. Claws are coming out with the flashing eyes, now, and Peter has forgone shoes completely as his toenails sharpen and recede. Chris pulls out of their apartment complex, forcing down the years’ worth of questions piling up on the tip of his tongue. He speeds down the empty streets and focuses on being grateful that Peter hadn’t given in to instinct and run off, leaving Chris to catch up.

Chris knows how tempting a five-minute sprint sounds in comparison to a fifteen-minute drive. He takes a hand off the wheel and rests his palm on Peter’s thigh. Keeping his voice calm and neutral, he asks about Peter's family.  
  


“Talia called—that’s why I wasn’t in the bedroom. I didn’t want to wake you,” Peter says between grunts of growls. “Everyone felt it. Even the pups.”

“Are they at the stump?”

“Everyone from the home. Others are making their way across the states. Talia says it’s glowing.”

Chris nods, squeezing Peter’s thigh. He wonders if somehow his family has been tipped off yet, and if not, how long it will be before the news reaches them.

Throughout the 1900s, the Nemeta around the world started a chain reaction of activating in great times of need, summoning a Guardian to the Nemeta’s town. Each Guardian has been vastly different in species and temperaments. Beyond the basics of when, where, and who, the intricacies of each case is a heavily guarded secret by the supernatural community stationed at the activated Nemeta.   
  


In the ‘90s, Chris received his first big solo Hunting mission. He settled down in Beacon Hills under the guise of keeping an eye on the Hales for their treaty with the Argents. Chris’ dad, however, hoped Chris would be there when the Beacon Hills Nemeton finally awakened, paving the way for the Argents to swoop in and snatch the Guardian.

In the end, the new millennium came with nothing from Beacon Hills except Chris’ tumultuous on-and-off relationship with Peter Hale. 

Chris’ dad hadn’t been happy, to say the least.

The supernatural world theorized North America would be the only continent without a Guardian, blaming the Hales for allowing the sacred tree to be chopped down in the 40s. Chris had privately agreed, even before the last day of 1999 passed with no signal. 

In the next few days, the determinedly hopeful Hale pack will have their chance at screaming _I told you so_. A whole two decades after the last Guardian appeared in Japan, the wait has come to an end in the year of 2005.

Peter’s succumbed to his Beta shift by the time Chris pulls in front of the Hale mansion. He opens the door and flies out into the trees before Chris presses on the brake. Skidding to a halt, Chris flies out of the car as well, not bothering to take the keys out as he runs after his Werewolf lover.

A golden glow floats like a low fog through the Preserve. The light brushes Chris’ knees with a tickling warmth. He runs deeper into the woods, following where the source of light grows brighter.

Howls call out as Chris bursts into a small clearing. Peter’s wedged himself between his older brother and Talia. Chris walks up and lays his palm between Peter’s shoulder blades, waiting for the tension to bleed out. He lingers a few seconds before moving down the line of Hales circling the tree stump. He makes space for himself next to the Hale children.

The Nemeton hurts to look at directly. Each ring in the stump shoots blinding light upwards in different hues of golden brown. Chris had read of France’s Nemeton waking up water spirits by emitting a siren-like call. 

Beacon Hills Preserve only echoes with the sounds of agitated Werewolves. Chris wonders what the abundance of light hints at who the Guardian will be.

The children yelp when the mystical fog surrounding the forest surges forward, pooling into a single beam of light in the center of the stump. Chris startles at the thunder-like clap that booms with the force of a strong wind. Everyone stumbles back a few steps.

Slowly, the beam of light fades as the imprint of a figure starts filling out. Will it be an elf? A centaur? A harpy? A sphinx? Maybe even a Werewolf?

Chris remembers waiting impatiently as a child for Polaroid photos to develop, fingers-crossed that the picture turns out how he imagined. He’s not sure what he imagines of the Guardian but his heart beats in his throat with impatience.

The blood in Chris’ veins goes from unnoticed to warm to burning. He feels inexplicably compelled to do _something_. The Hales throw their heads back and howl with reckless abandon. Chris fights to keep his gaze steady, determined to be the first to see the Guardian.

“— _you, too, assholes_. _I_ —oh, fuck. Hey, hey, quit it with the howling! I have very human ears! Delicate human ears you’re deafening! Yeah, okay, that’s better. Shit, my ears are ringing. Why’s it so dark?” The snapping of fingers brings forth a small globe of blue-tinted light. It floats in the palms of the Guardian, who sways in the middle of the Nemeton. “Oh, huh. Think I’mma...pass out.”

Chris lurches forward and notices Peter does the same. Neither of them make it in time as the Guardian collapses.

♨ ♨ ♨

_Everything is blood and fire, chaos and desperation._

_“I’m already dying. What’s the worst it can do?”_

_“You aren’t prepped! You were never—”_

_“HEY! Captain, can it accept me?”_

_“Don’t answer him. Do not answer him.”_

_“It...might.”_

_“Alright, then. Come on, boys.”_

_“No!”_

_“You find the pack, right away.”_

_“Are you crazy? We can’t let him—”_

_“You think I want this? I’m our only bet! Just shut up and—”_

_“Sh. We’ve got you. We’ve got you.”_

_“I—okay, wait. I’ll…help. I—we’ve got you.”_

_“I’m—ah—fine. I’m fine! Keep going, don’t you fucking stop now. Alright, back up. Everyone move! Everyone close your eyes! Do it now. Do it now, goddammit.”_

_“Always one for attention, aren’t you?”_

_“We’ve got you.”_

_“Shut up. Shit, I can’t believe you fuckers did this to me. I love—”_

  
  


☾ ☾ ☾ 

  
  


Peter paces up and down the stretch of hallway outside Talia’s bedroom. It’s custom for a Nemeta Guardian to be claimed by its chosen supernatural community as soon as possible. Belonging to a Werewolf pack, scenting is the first step and best offer of protection. As Alpha, Talia had carried their Guardian back to the pack home and placed the unconscious body in her and her mate’s bed. 

As the pack’s Left Hand, Peter’s trusted to guard the room while Talia handles the chaos downstairs. The arrival of pack members from outside of town is a never-ending stream and there’s never a moment where at least one person’s phone isn't ringing. Peter’s brother Thomas, the Right Hand, handles the calls. 

Peter’s lucky his pack status lines him up with the task he wants. He’d be crawling out of his skin if Talia had appointed him elsewhere. Their Guardian being out of sight and behind closed doors has him on edge enough as it is. 

Peter bites back the growl that’s been sitting in his chest for the past twelve hours. Despite being in control of his shift again, an urgency continues clawing at his wolf. He hates not knowing what’s wrong with him. The rest of the pack's instincts have calmed down since the clearing, more than satisfied to have their Guardian in their den. 

Talia’s the only other Werewolf still high-strung, but that’s expected with her being the Alpha. 

Then there’s Chris, leaning against Talia’s bedroom doors, eyes tracking Peter. His locked jaw and agitated scent betray his stoic expression.

“Are you alright?” Peter forces the words out. He knows he’s been a bit of a dick to Chris since this all started. It’s times like these when having a human lover feels too complicated. 

Chris gives a head jerk of a nod and Peter pauses to raise an eyebrow. Stiff posture melting, Chris rubs a hand over his face. His unshaven scruff looks good, Peter thinks. 

“I don’t know,” Chris says. “I didn’t think it would...affect me.”

Peter stalks forward, making an inquisitive sound.

Chris smiles ruefully. “Ever since they appeared, there's been an itch under my skin. It's not a Hunter instinct. I don't know what it is.”

Caging Chris into the wall, Peter ducks his head to scent Chris’ neck. Both of them relax at the contact and a pleased growl rumbles through Peter. He nips at Chris’ pulse point before drawing back. “I can think of a few ways to de-stress.”

Chris laughs. He nudges their noses together. “Not if we’re spending the night here.”

Peter pouts for show. Inwardly, he’s delighted that Chris agrees in spending the night at pack home. Going back to their apartment sounds unbearable.

Anchoring himself in holding Chris’ hand, Peter settles down enough that he manages to lean against the wall and stop pacing. 

The sun has set by the time the Hale Emissary sneaks upstairs, flanked by Talia and Thomas.

“Deaton,” Peter acknowledges. 

“Hello, Peter. Any signs of movement?”

Peter bristles. As if he wouldn’t have said something as soon as he heard any change of life. Chris squeezes his hand. “No.” Peter smiles blandly. “His heartbeat and breathing are steady.”

Deaton’s smile is far more friendly than Peter’s. 

“Why don’t we discuss this in the room?” Thomas intervenes. 

Peter and Chris step away for Talia to open up the bedroom. Chris only takes his leave once he gets a peek at their sleeping Guardian. Peter distractedly accepts a peck on the cheek, noting Chris’ murmur about waiting up for Peter in his old room.

Deaton enters the room, making a beeline to the bed. Talia sits beside their Guardian, running a hand through long brown locks. Thomas stands beside her. Peter closes the door, slinking inside to the corner with the best vantage point.

He tunes out Talia and Deaton’s chatter, preoccupied with cataloging every detail of their sleeping Guardian. They’re young looking with only faint wrinkles near their eyes, most likely from smiling. Peter guesses they’re anywhere from early to late twenties. They have a deceivingly slim body, though Peter can tell they’re packing muscle under the thin t-shirt and jeans. More of a lean, athletic body than a bodybuilder, but strong just the same. The various scars littering their exposed arms have Peter clenching his teeth. He wants to know if it’s a sign of a weak healing factor or if the injuries were so fatal that they left scars despite advanced healing. Peter has to let the train of thought go, his gums hurting.

Their Guardian has chestnut brown hair curling behind ears, a square jaw, an up-turned nose, a few beauty marks scattered about their face, and long eyelashes. Large hands, slender neck, broad shoulders, long legs. Plain blue t-shirt, old jeans, and thick wool socks.

Most interesting about their appearance, aside from the scars, is the matching black cuffs around their wrists. 

“They have powerful magic,” Deaton says to Talia. “I believe most of this is an illusion.”

“Is this not their true form?” Talia asks.

“I believe this is them when they’re healthy,” Deaton explains. “They’re sleeping appears more than magical exhaustion. There’s an aura of healing magic. If I had to guess, I’d say they have a magical instinct that kicks-in to hide injuries until they’ve recovered.”

Peter, Talia, and Thomas growl at the implication that their Guardian has been hurting all day. 

“Can I drain their pain?” Thomas asks. Peter fights down a snarl.

Deaton shakes his head. “Until we know how severe the injuries are, it’s best not to interfere in case it confuses the body and stops the healing. They’re not in critical danger and I expect our Guardian will be awake with us sometime tomorrow.”

“A human, then,” Talia says.

“A type of Mage.”

“And you haven’t seen nor heard any signs of imbalance?”

“Not until last night. They set off quite the powerful force of nature. Other than that, everything seems to be fine.”

“What about the wrists?” Peter speaks up, stepping out from the shadows.

Deaton frowns down at the cuffs. “I’m not sure. They aren’t magical dampers. There’s a force that keeps me from touching them.”

Talia stops brushing their Guardian’s hair and gives a try at touching a cuff. Her fingers stop at the black edge and she jerks back, surprised, as her eyes flash and fangs extend. Thomas tenses, taking a step forward as Talia rubs her hand and composes her face.

Peter carries on to his next question. “Can you touch his pants? There’s something in his front pocket.”

Deaton hesitates, eyeing Talia’s clenched hand. Peter rolls his eyes and takes it as an excuse to come forward. Their Guardian stinks of Talia and her mate more so than pack. It irks Peter’s wolf.

There’s a resistance to the air surrounding their Guardian and it slows Peter’s hand when he reaches closer. There’s a moment where a hum vibrates through his body before fading away. The resistance dissipates. As tempting as it is to try and touch the cuff, Peter keeps to his goal. He pulls out a thin leather brown wallet.

Shamelessly, Peter rifles through their Guardian’s only possession. The same hum of magic runs through his body before it accepts his inquiry a second time. “Money,” Peter says, “a form of identification that says Beacon Hills Faction, and...a photo booth picture strip.”

Talia’s annoyance at Peter’s disobedience slips into intrigue. Peter places the photo strip on their Guardian’s clothed stomach. The four of them lean over to peer at it.

There are five little squared photos stacked on top of each other on a skinny strip of glossy paper. In the first one, their Guardian sits center and sticks out their tongue childishly. The second has their head turned oddly to the left, lips puckered. The third is the same except their head faces right. In the fourth one, they’re facing forward again and grinning, eyes closed and arms hanging awkwardly in the air. The last photo square is mainly blank except for a fourth of their Guardian’s face hanging off to the right edge—one eye, the corner of an open mouth, and wild hair.

“There’s a heavy imprint of magic on this,” Deaton says.

Peter narrows his eyes at the fourth picture box, eyes lingering on the arms in the air. 

“For what reason?” Talia asks. 

“They’re hiding the identities of I’m guessing two other people,” Deaton says, confirming what Peter assumed. “It looks like there should be a person on each side.”

“Lovers?” Thomas suggests.

“Or siblings or friends,” Peter says. “A cheek kiss doesn’t mean romance.”

Talia shoots Peter a questioning look before she adds her input. “Whoever they are, they’re a soft spot for our Guardian. Remember our place. Let’s not push for details.”

Peter presses his lips together, ignoring Talia’s gaze. 

  
  


_♨ ♨ ♨_

  
  


_“I’m not wasting five dollars on this.”_

_“Come on, pretty please? I know you’re sentimental under that charred outer-layer. You totally want to do this. Admit it.”_

_“I’ll do it.”_

_“Ha! I always knew I liked you better. Whatever, we don’t need a third wheel.”_

_“Oh, you’re such a suck-up—fine. I’ll do the stupid pictures. But I’m not paying for it.”_

_“I call middle spot! Here, you go in first. Age before beauty, you know—hey!”_

_“There’s not enough room for the three of us.”_

_“How come I have to be the one to sit on your lap?”_

_“Are you complaining?”_

_“…No.”_

_“If you two are done flirting, I’ve paid the five dollars.”_

_“Knew you were my favorite—ow, okay! You’re both my favorites! Damn. So jealous.”_

_“Shut up and say cheese.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've fallen down the stetopher rabbit hole and decided to give this plot bunny a go! My other steter story is plot-centered so I'm hoping to have fun with this romance-centric fic. I hope you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear any thoughts <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mentions of being previously sedated. No violence is depicted/detailed other than the mention of blood.

➼ ➼ ➼

A sharp sting bursting across his cheek wakes Chris up. He sluggishly fights his way to consciousness. Large hands grip his shoulders and impatiently yank him out of bed.

“Pe’r,” Chris slurs, falling into the firm and hot body holding him up. 

“Wake the fuck up, Chris. Do I need to slap you again? I’m going to slap you again.”

The sting sharpens, his cheek tender from the previous hit. The clarity of pain manages to kick-start adrenaline, making Chris aware enough to pathetically nudge his assailant away. 

“Hey, buddy, you’re up! Good, good. So, bad news—the house is burning down. Not good, I know. But the good news is you have me!”

Chris stares at the Guardian—awake and talking—with bleary eyes. They’re...full, is the only way Chris’ drugged mind can explain. Not full of life, exactly, but maybe bigger than life? There’s something about them that’s overwhelming and too much. Chris feels himself wanting to stay in the Guardian’s orbit, follow the pull to their big brown eyes.

Fingers snap in Chris’ vision. “Dude! Death knocking on the door, hello? Are you going to help or let your mate and his pack burn?”

“Mate?” Chris asks. “We’re not—Peter—it’s not. We’re together. Not…”

“Oh my fucking god. This is not marriage counseling—”

“We’re not married.”

“Holy fuck! I swear to fucking—Christopher,” the Guardian drags the three syllables of Chris’ name out, “just go wake up the other humans. Slapping seems to get the work done but use your weapon of choice. Just not, like, an actual weapon because then I’ll have to kill you. And I’d hate that! You seem like a good Argent, right? Okay, good talk!” The Guardian claps Chris on the shoulder, the strength of it sending Chris staggering. 

“Wait, what are you…”

“Don’t worry about me.” The Guardian waves a dismissive hand. Disconcertingly, the hand is caked in old blood. “I’m going to break some bones to power juice that Werewolf healing. Magic’s already clearing out the air and then I’ll deal with the mountain ash, wolfsbane, fire, and kill—you get the gist.” The Guardian pushes Chris out of Peter’s old bedroom and down the hallway. 

The burnt smell of smoke lingers in the clear air. The Guardian flips Chris to face them, eyes so wide and big and _full_. They give him a jaunty smile. 

“I’m counting on you, Argent,” the Guardian says. Steel bleeds into the order, “Go wake the humans.”

Chris is flipped around again, pushed down the hallway, and all alone. Without the Guardian’s distracting presence, the gears in Chris’ mind finally start turning, taking stock of the situation. The last thing he remembers is curling up in bed with Peter after a giant Hale feast that had everyone stuffed full to drowsiness.

Chris stumbles down the hallway, hand dragging along the warm wall. He compartmentalizes his panic and questions. Hunter programming takes over—he’d trained to pull through dire circumstance under all means necessary, drugged, dying, or otherwise. Chris has never been so thankful for his less than conventional upbringing.

The first door down from Peter’s old bedroom is the Hale twins’ room. Six-year-old Olive is fast asleep, her little body rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her Were twin is nowhere to be seen. 

Gritting his teeth, Chris wrestles his dazed mind, reminding himself he is more than equipped to handle this. He clings to the Guardian’s order— _I’m counting on you, Argent._

Other than Olive, there should be one other human on this floor, a teenage cousin. After that, there are four other humans in the house. Two Hales came home from college because of the Guardian. They’re on the floor below, third bedroom to the left. The last two humans are most likely on the first floor. Summer, a human mate, has taken to falling asleep in front of the fireplace while soothing her human infant back to sleep. 

Shit. _Think with your head, Chris, not your emotions._

Waking Olive will only slow him down and complicate things. With one arm, he scoops her up and awkwardly props her floppy body on his hip. He deems Olive’s cousin as capable of handling fear and slaps him awake, pushing aside the guilt. Right now, efficiency is all that matters. Sleepily, the teenager clings to Chris’ shirt and stumbles with him down the stairs.

Chris feels less shitty for slapping the college kids, knowing they’ll understand. For hardly ever interacting with Chris, the two are worryingly compliant following his lead. He passes Olive off to the older of the two. The younger one pries the teen off Chris, slinging her cousin onto her back.

“Fire. Downstairs, now. Guardian,” Chris says, words clipped, knowing none of them can process anything right now.

“Gur’d’n’s ‘wake?”

Chris grunts an affirmative as he urges them into moving quicker. At the end of the staircase, the Guardian awaits them on bouncing feet.

“Brilliant! Hello, everyone, wonderful to meet you. Kids, let’s go, let’s go, away from the doorway everyone! Okay, huddle here on the couch with your Auntie. Let’s keep her asleep until I come back, okay? Who wants to hold the baby? Chris, excellent,” the Guardian says, handing off Summer’s infant to Chris’ arms before he can protest. “Hey, support her head. Oh my god, someone correct this idiot on how to hold a baby, yeah?” Steel creeps back into the Guardian’s voice like earlier. “Take care of each other.” Light-hearted again, they throw a lazy salute as they jog backwards. “You’re all safe. See you soon!”

One of the college kids lets out a garbled whimper at the Guardian leaving. Chris swallows back his own protest. Summer’s baby stirs in his arms—far too tiny and fragile. Why couldn’t the first baby he’s ever held be a Werewolf one? Chris aches for Peter.

The stench of smoke is stronger down on the first floor, though the air is just as clear. The fireplace is unlit and no scorch marks surround it. Chris’ mind might be dulled down by whatever sedative he unknowingly consumed but even so, he can tell something’s not right. Where is the fire?

Several hands fist in Chris’ shirt when an influx of snarls rattles the floorboards underneath them. Names are shouted, including Chris’. The humans stick to the couch, heeding the Guardian’s orders. 

Mere seconds after the snarling starts, the Guardian is back upstairs and running to the front door, a little worse for wear. His clothes have new slashes and something like dirt clings to his arms. They shout, “Good job listening!” and exit out of sight.

Chris listens to the front doors opening with a bang and slamming shut immediately. Chris’ body goes rigid as gunshots ring out.

There’s a muffled _YIPPEE KI-YAY, MAMACITA!_ followed by the sound of a massive explosion.

One of the humans next to Chris breathes out with wonder, “Who are they?”

“The Guardian,” Chris says just as breathlessly.

The awake humans nod dumbly in agreement.

Chris strains his ears to pick up on the sounds of fighting. Protecting by sitting with desperate hands gripping him for comfort has never been Chris’ role. Everything in him screams to jump into action.

A good chunk of time passes before the Weres of the family appear, scrambling their way up from the basement and clawing at each other to get to the couch first. Hands slacken from Chris’ shirt, the baby is taken, and he finds himself forced up and face-planted in what he assumes is Peter’s chest. It’s oddly reminiscent of the Guardian waking Chris up.

Vague humiliation curls in his stomach at the memory. He’d said something stupid to the Guardian—something about his and Peter’s relationship. Jesus christ, what had Chris been laced with?

The house fills with growls and snarls, the communal energy far darker than the joyous calls two nights ago at the Nemeton. Another explosion booms outside, shaking the whole house. 

“EVERYONE OUT OF THE HOUSE! GET YOUR WOLFY OR HUMAN BUTTS OUT, NOW! ANYONE SQUEAMISH OR A KID, CLOSE YOUR EYES!”

Chris shoves at Peter’s chest, taking charge as the first to make his way outside. Peter leans heavily on him, muttering about wolfsbane. While the humans suffered from mental coherency, the Weres seem to have taken a physical toll. Talia Alpha-roars from behind to get the stumbling mass moving. 

Stepping out into the crisp night air, Chris sees the Guardian’s point about warning anyone squeamish. Chris, an experienced Hunter, swallows nausea at the bloody sight of bodies torn apart and scattered across the lawn. Large metal scraps are littered here and there from what Chris assumes were once cars.

Chris helps Peter stagger down the porch stairs. The more coherent adults spin everyone around to face the house, keeping the gruesome battlefield out of sight.

Staring up at the Hale house covered in flames is its own horror, however. The children aren’t the only ones to cry out.

Chris, so confident in the Guardian that he never once worried for everyone’s safety, now clings to Peter tightly, gasping in a harsh breath.

It had been cozy warm inside and quiet—not burning hot with thick grey air and crackling sounds of fire. At most, the smell of smoke had been similar to burnt microwaved popcorn, annoying but not life-threatening.

Despite the Guardian saying the house was on fire, nothing had given Chris the impression that they’d all sat inside a massive ball of fire. 

Off to the side of the house, the Guardian has one hand held up, a gush of water streaming from their palm. Without looking over, the Guardian stretches their other hand toward the gathered Hales. Peter’s arms tighten around Chris as the Weres start coughing.

Chris twists in Peter’s hold, turning to see wisps of purple-gray smoke pulled out from the Werewolves’ mouths. Peter, worryingly, coughs up the most. 

The wisps of smoke float up, joining a large cloud of swirling dark smoke that’s in some type of contained bubble up in the sky. 

When the coughing tappers off, the Guardian gesticulates wildly with the non-water arm in an urgent _come here_ motion. “Get farther away. Away from the house, guys, come on, I know the flames don’t feel real but they are. Just get behind me and give me, like, two more minutes at most.”

The Hales obey, hurrying behind the Guardian. Peter’s delayed movements are more fluid and natural after the purged smoke. He runs his hands all over Chris, checking for any injuries.

Once Chris’ health is confirmed thoroughly, Peter moves on to others of his pack. There’s a sickening crunch of bones. Chris will have to ask about that later. For now, he watches the Guardian. 

The Guardian’s extinguished most of the fire. The house looks neither charred nor wet, as if none of this is happening. Shock and drugs are subduing Chris and the Hales, Chris knows this, but it’s mind-boggling how bizarrely calm they are in the midst of what should have been a massacre.

He doesn’t know how to process an extreme trauma that essentially didn’t happen. The Guardian took care of everything, not letting them know the severity until it passed.

Chris has been working on not being on the front line of action anymore. He tries keeping a cap on his bitterness, knowing how it throws a wrench in his and Peter’s relationship. For once, his annoyance at being left behind isn’t centered around pride. He’s irrationally mad about the Guardian working with no one to watch their back.

Why couldn’t the Guardian have waited for the Werewolves to gain back control before going outside to attack and defend?

With the ripped apart bodies and the house returned to its normal state, it’s clear the Guardian can more than handle things by themselves. Logically, Chris knows that’s the point of a Guardian, stepping up as the protector of the land. 

He distinctly remembers the Guardian crying out _delicate human_ on the Nemeton, though. 

Soaked in fresh blood, the Guardian sinks to their knees, both arms raised to the sky. Chris’ eyes are drawn to what looks like cuffs wrapped around each wrist. They glow molten red. A soft pop sounds above and Chris tilts back his head, fascinated as the bubble of purple-gray smoke disperses into a clear sky of twinkling stars. 

Several Hales make noises of wonder. Chris’ eyes are drawn back down to the Guardian. Their hands lower to hover an inch above the ground, cuffs still glowing. Green light shines in Chris’ periphery and a quick glance shows a transparent green dome forming over the house. Chris watches a deep wrinkle form between the Guardian’s eyebrows as their eyes scrunch tightly closed. Chris looks back to the house—dark splotches of red bloom across the green dome. The floor with Talia’s bedroom is one long strip of red.

Peter joins Chris in watching the Guardian, draping himself over Chris’ back protectively. The Guardian’s mouth moves fast, indecipherable under the Hales’ chaos. 

“Latin,” Peter murmurs. “Some Greek.”

Chris absently notes the Hales exclaiming as the green and red in Chris’ periphery shifts in a bright burst to blue. The light fades and the earth rumbles for several seconds.

Chris’ eyes stay trained on the Guardian the whole time. When the shaking earthquake ends, the Guardian topples face forward into the grass. Peter snarls.

A rush of wind pushes Chris and Peter backwards. When Chris tries stepping forward, his foot meets an unyielding invisible wall. His back vibrates with the strength of Peter’s growl. 

On the other side of the wall, the Guardian rolls onto their back, muscles going lax. They stare up at the night sky, chest heaving dramatically. “Your home is safe,” the Guardian rasps out. Their voice is wrecked compared to earlier, as if they inhaled all the dispersed smoke. “I’ve performed the most intricate scanning and cleared any and all suspicions, including a moldy sandwich under someone’s bed.” The steel tone returns. “I swear on my life—on the Nemeton, it’s safe. You are all safe.” When no one says anything, the Guardian gives a weak cheer. “Yay. Go team. If you don’t mind, I’m going to pass out for a quick ten, thanks.”

♨ ♨ ♨

_Calloused fingers skim over sore ribs._

_“Easy on the merchandise until someone with pain-sucky powers comes.”_

_“You know he said no pain-sucking if you do something reckless.”_

_“I wasn’t reckless.”_

_“You could have waited for back-up.”_

_“Could have, yes. Should have? That’s up for debate.”_

_“Whether you should be allowed outside is up for debate.”_

_“Harsh.”_

_“You really scared me tonight. I know we’re not…”_

_“Hey. Hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right.”_

_“I care about you.”_

_“I…”_

_“Sh. Let me at least bandage your arm.”_

_“Okay. Thank you.”_

_“Always.”_

☾ ☾ ☾

  
  


“Our Guardian spoke to you,” Peter says. 

“Six more minutes,” Chris says in response, pressing the light of his watch on. 

They both glance at their Guardian, sleeping once more.

Chris had quickly filled in Talia on what happened on the human side of things, wrapping everything in one succinct sentence that the pack humans nodded along to. The 'wolf version isn’t much different—they’d also gone to sleep peacefully and were woken up by their Guardian. The 'wolves just had the bonus luck of inexplicably waking up in the basement, paralyzed and locked in with mountain ash.

All the details of who, what, when, and how are put on hold until their Guardian wakes back up.

The pack huddles at the edge of the invisible barrier keeping them from their Guardian. The pack bonds thrum with nervous aggitation about being unable to scent their injured Guardian. Talia and Thomas’ bonds are twined with distress. It’s upsetting how their Guardian doesn’t trust the Alpha and Right Hand, treating them the same as the pack.

Peter knows this not because his sister and brother have spoken about it—yet—but because Peter feels the same.

Why doesn’t their Guardian trust the pack? Is the magic barrier instinctive? If so, why do their instincts find the pack untrustworthy? If not instinct, what made them consciously distrust the pack already?

He lays each question in a mental file cabinet to examine later. He’d pulled Chris aside in the hopes of getting more information. He’s not sure what to make of Chris’ avoidance by keeping track of the time. It’s not completely out of character for Chris to skirt around talking near pack, knowing they can easily eavesdrop.

Peter stares at their Guardian’s dirty body, clothes in tatters and skin bloodied.

“They woke me up first,” Peter finds himself confiding, “and asked me for the Alpha. Then they broke our arms.” Chris’ heartbeat jumps and he stops fiddling with his watch. The soft affection of Chris running his hands up and down Peter’s perfectly healed arms nearly brings a purr out of Peter’s chest. “They said we had wolfsbane in our systems and their magic pulled most of it out. Creating a new injury forced our healing to re-start.”

“That’s an old war technique,” Chris comments, his eyebrows rising to his hairline.

“Effective as the old journals say,” Peter says. “They said you had our pack’s humans handled and safe.”

Chris locks his gaze with Peter for a moment, wavering for a second. He subtly shakes his head in a _not now_.

Peter had been too woozy to speak with their Guardian at the time, his healing burning as it worked double time. All he could do was lie there, useless, as he thought about how Deaton had been right. Their Guardian had cast an illusion to appear in perfect condition while they slept.

Being the first 'wolf woken up, Peter had time to pick apart the differences in their Guardian’s awake appearance. Their plain t-shirt and jeans were torn and ripped, blood soaked in the material around the tears. More blood covered their arms, pooled in their ears, and coated the back of their head. It was dried blood, though, and smelled older than the two days their Guardian had slept in the pack home. Deaton’s comment on sensing healing magic had value. Wherever their Guardian came from, they’d been in battle.

Peter wonders how long their Guardian had been awake before stepping outside into a new battle, painted with fresh blood.

As a Left Hand, Peter can appreciate the skill and competence of defeating a small army of enemies alone. As a pack member, rage had consumed Peter when their Guardian left the basement with nothing more than a wave. 

“Chris,” Peter says. “They just...ran off. Told us we’d be up and moving in five minutes and to get out of the house when they tell us to.”

Chris’ mouth twisted in an unsurprised frown. “I heard gunshots. This must be...six people, at least.”

“I can smell more bodies decaying, further in the woods.”

“Christ.” Chris blows out a puff of air and glances at his watch. “Two minutes. Still no police sirens.”

“Silencer spell,” Peter suggests.

Chris tilts his head towards the pack. “Reparations?”

“It’s a Guardian’s duty to protect their land. They had the right to kill for us.” Peter pauses. “I’d wager there are more people connected to this that weren’t on site. The pack can have our turn for personal justice. Hopefully.”

“Hunters,” Chris says. A few of the pack turn toward them, listening in. Chris doesn’t lower his voice. “I have a feeling my...the Argents are tied into this.”

Peter sweeps his gaze over any identifiable body parts across the lawn, ignoring the few growls from the pack. “Is…”

“No.” Quieter, more to himself, Chris adds, “Not that I can tell.”

Fair point. Peter supposes the lack of decapitated heads is a small mercy for the traumatized pups. It’s a disappointment to lose easy identification. Peter will have to wait and see how clever their Guardian is.

In the basement, they had referred to Chris by name when assuring the pack humans’ safety. When he gets Chris out of the pack’s earshot, what news will he share? If Chris suspects his family is involved in this but doesn’t recognize any body parts, there’s a chance their Guardian tipped Chris off by something they said.

The grass glows neon under their feet. Chris and Peter’s heads snap to their Guardian. Peter’s eyes hone in on the previously relaxed fingers twitching. Their hand curls into the earth and their slack face tightens with stress lines. The tension in their body leaves as quickly as it came on, the neon grass flickering off. 

Eyes flutter open and the more sensitive of the pack whine and shuffle forward. Talia subtly angles her shoulder to no avail—the barrier remains up.

“That was traumatic,” their Guardian says. They’ve recovered from the croaky whisper they used before passing out. 

Their voice is deep, not gruff and smoky like Chris’, but smooth like Peter’s. Instead of having Peter’s honey-slick inflection, their Guardian’s voice dips higher and lower depending on their emotions.

A breeze rushes by as their Guardian stands, lifted to his feet by the wind. They brush pieces of grass off their knees and backside as if their clothes aren’t beyond repair, drenched in blood and torn to pieces. The act is so absurd that Peter’s tempted to laugh.

“Kinda doing this backwards, huh?” their Guardian says to Talia, making direct eye contact to address the Alpha of the pack. Pulling up to full height, somewhere just under six feet, their Guardian says, “Alpha Hale. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for granting me access to your pack’s lands and providing care during my recovery. I bring knowledge with me to foster peace and protect as Guardian of Beacon Hills, member of the Hale pack. If you’ll have me.”

The combination of the formal tone and flat way of speaking is jarring. From how their Guardian spoke when waking Peter up, they leaned towards sarcasm and brash informality. Peter recalls Thomas being referred to as _dude_.

Still, their Guardian continues shattering expectations. They managed to kick in some spice in the formal address by breaking tradition.

As per the rules of Nemeta Guardians, the Head of the supernatural community living by a Nemeta is decreed to be the one to introduce themselves. 

A Guardian never speaks first and certainly doesn’t _thank_ the community for access to the territory a Guardian inherits upon arrival. A Guardian should never thank the community for providing care that is their right to receive and demand. 

Their Guardian _almost_ perfected the most important piece of a Guardian declaration—

_After the Head introduces and welcomes the Guardian, it is of utmost importance to listen carefully for the value the Guardian bestows on the land. In tradition with their Guardian brethren, the Guardian will say, “I bring [value] with me in the hopes of fostering peace as Guardian of [location].” Refer to page six on the importance of documentation._

Their Guardian took out the hope part of the passage, firm in their belief that they will carry out their duties. It’s reckless to make such promises, implying a more personal relationship. Tacking on _protect_ after peace made it clear they hadn’t carelessly slipped up their declaration but intentionally altered it.

The boldness of aligning themselves as a pack member in the same sentence as Guardian is borderline scandalous. They’re hammering in their belief of the pack being of equal importance as their obligations to the land. 

Peter would argue their wording can be interpreted as wanting to be Guardian to the Hales, separate from their duty to Beacon Hills.

On top of that, most daring of all, their Guardian tied it up in a choice.

_If you’ll have me._

As if a supernatural community has any right to turn down a Guardian, a Chosen by the Holy Tree.

Such intricacies of a Guardian’s first statement aren’t known to the general knowledge of the pack. ( _Knowledge_ —what an interesting value for their Guardian to pick over magic. Peter will have to circle back to that later.) It’s Talia, Thomas, and Peter who are floundering, having the _Book of Guardians_ passages known by heart, especially the piece on a Guardian’s first statement. 

Chris’ hand slips into Peter’s. His pheromones are tinted with surprise, quickly picking up on their Guardian breaking a tradition. Chris’ intelligence grounds Peter.

Thomas nudges Talia out of her trance.

“Guardian of Beacon Hills, Chosen One by the Holy Tree, we, the Hale Werewolf pack, are most honored and welcomed by your arrival and presence,” Talia recites. “We endeavor to provide aid and resources indefinitely. We stand by your blessed guidance.”

The pack knows their one part to play, declaring their agreement. Chris tilts his head back and yells along with the pack’s howl, copying the shouting human pack members. Peter’s claws unsheathe in the hand Chris holds—Chris has never taken part in a howl in all the years of full moons he’s attended. 

“It is our pleasure to meet you,” Talia goes on once the howling ends. She talks slowly as she works through the uncharted territory of addressing their Guardian’s unexpected statements. “The land is as much yours as it is ours and we’ll always care for you. Thank you for your protection, in the future and from the fate that almost took us tonight. In our hearts, you’ve always been pack since before you arrived.”

The expressions rippling across their Guardian’s face changes rapidly. The vulnerability is a stark contrast to the distrustful magic that hides them away. Their Guardian’s face, voice, and body language are an open book. The problem is, the pages flip too fast to read.

Peter has always been a fast learner, especially with the right motivation.

In the end, their Guardian’s face settles on a cheeky smile, both natural and forced. One of their most used masks, Peter guesses.

“Well,” their Guardian claps their hands, “glad that bit’s over with!” Their voice shifts upward, a touch chipper. “Hi, I’m Stiles. Pronouns are he/him. I like long walks in the forest where I don’t get eaten and my idea of a good time is pizza and action movies.” 

The pack stares.

Their Guardian drops the playful tone, looking vaguely disappointed. “Stiles,” he recites, “trained in witchcraft, Druidic law, and mentored to succession by a certified Mage, as well as cultured by a water nymph, a pixie, and a classified Fae. My status is a Spark.”

Peter's breath is stolen half-way through their Guardian speaking. His head spins, thoughts jumbled as they get caught around the incredulity of nymph, pixie, and Fae. Chris' fingers tighten around Peter's in matching awe.

“Most impressive,” Talia says. Peter holds back a snort at the massive understatement. “Stiles is a title?”

Their Guardian laughs. “No, it’s my name.”

Instantly, a pup eagerly calls out, “‘Tiles!”

Half of the pack shushes the pup. Honestly, Peter’s surprised the pups have been quietly behaved this far in and admires this pup’s courage.

Their Guardian brightens, his smile stretching. For still being filthy in blood, he somehow manages to look friendly and nonthreatening. He rises up on his tiptoes to looks through the pack.

“That’s me!” He waves to the pup sitting on her mom’s shoulders. “What’s your name?”

A shy pause. Cecelia, Thomas’ daughter, answers for her pup. “Her name’s Clementine Hestia Hale.”

Their Guardian’s eyebrows tick upward for half a second. Peter catches the reaction, though not to what caused it. Other than that, their Guardian’s happy demeanor doesn’t slip. “Clementine. Great name. I love clementines. Do you?”

“Yes,” Clementine says. Only the ‘wolves should hear her, her voice a soft whisper in the back of the pack. A breeze brushes by as she speaks, magically carrying Clem’s voice until she sounds like she’s standing by Talia.

“We should eat some together sometime,” their Guardian says.

The pack breathlessly watches the interaction between their Guardian, still covered in blood, and the pack’s angel child pup. Clem’s scent shines with happiness. 

Peter obsessively pieces information together—elemental magic is favored as much as light magic. The light magic, for lack of a better term, is something Peter hasn’t seen or read about. The most he knows are simple spells for conjuring a ball of light. Whatever their Guardian uses is far more complex than that—complicated colors with varying brightness, the variety in forms from an expansive glow to singular beams. It gathers information, like when their Guardian incased the house in green with red to show places of danger. It’s some source of energy, as well, Peter thinks. Based on how his cuffs brightened when performing magic and the way the grass lit up when he awakened, he draws power from light.

“Alpha Hale,” their Guardian says, “I’d love to get to know everyone but I’m guessing the pups should go back inside while we handle this.” He talks about _this_ like he’s referring to how people take their tea rather than discussing an attempted murder—a massacre. Dealing with the details of body parts deeper in and scattered throughout the forest. “I swear on the Holy Tree that your house is safe. My magic was full-charged when I woke up. I used half of that reserve doing everything,” he waves a hand in a circle, “and then used the whole other half of my energy resources to conduct several thorough scans over your pack mansion to confirm it’s one-hundred percent safe. My nap juiced me back up a bit so I scanned it once more in a quick and dirty version and it’s in tip-top shape.” Their Guardian tilts his head, musing, “There was a bad case of black mold in the attic I got rid of, actually. It’s probably better than before—no offense.”

It would have been beyond rude of Talia to question or hesitate going in the house. Her Alpha status holds no superiority in this dynamic. Their Guardian going out of the way to explain in detail what he’d done to ensure safety and reassure the integrity of his protection _again_ is boldly kind.

Talia’s unable to hide the way she sags like a puppet cut of its strings at the comfort.

With the traditional Guardian greetings over, the reality of the night starts sinking in.

“Yes, I agree,” Talia says. She starts giving orders and for once there are no whines from the older pups at being snubbed from important discussions. Laura stubbornly sticks by her mother. Derek has no qualms in joining the pups herded back inside. They’re guarded by Summer and Bertie, cuddling their newborn pup between them.

Peter debates arguing with Chris to go back to bed. The other pack humans are heavily dazed, their eyes unfocused. Just because Chris can push through things other humans can’t _—_ it doesn’t mean he _should_. He acts like he’s as invincible as a 'wolf.

Chris tenses against Peter, waiting for the fight. Peter sighs heavily but doesn’t say anything. He pinches Chris’ side to express his displeasure and smirks when Chris roughly elbows him in return.

The front doors close with a slight slam and Peter turns his attention to Talia, waiting for his assignment.

“Who are you, by the way?” their Guardian cuts in.

Talia blinks owlishly at the earnest curiosity. “Oh. I’m Talia.”

“Nice to meet you, Alpha Talia.” Their Guardian tilts his head to the side—not back in full submission—in an invitation to scent. Talia hesitates before stepping forward.

The barrier is down.

There’s no Alpha properness in the way she runs, pulling her mate with her to double-scent their Guardian.

Every pack member outside jumps into line, eager for permission to scent. Peter cuts by everyone, bypassing even Thomas. Struggling to control his wolf, Peter listens for Chris’ heartbeat, surprised to hear it close. He glances back, finding Chris wedged directly behind Thomas—inserting himself in pack dynamic for a second time this night.

Peter thinks with his wolf when he reaches out to grab Chris. It’s inappropriate to blatantly disregard the Right Hand’s status again, but Thomas is so mild-mannered. Besides, Talia had brought her mate with her. 

If Chris is going to _scent_ someone, there’s no way in hell Peter’s missing out on it. 

  
  


♨ ♨ ♨

_A persistent scratch sneaks down his cheek to rub against his neck._

_“Stop squirming, you little brat. Come back here.”_

_“Uh-uh, you know my shaving rule. Only hands if you’re going to look like this.”_

_“But you like the beard burn.”_

_“Oh my god! Do you want me to hide my scent and heartbeat, you piece of shit?”_

_“I’m just stating the truth. Aren’t I, sweetheart?”_

_“No comment.”_

_“But he likes your beard burn, too. Even more than mine.”_

_“Scenting privileges retracted! Both of you! Leave me alone until your nose learns manners or someone finally stitches your mouth shut. God, I cannot believe I vouched for you two.”_

_“Hey, I didn’t do anything.”_

_“Oh please, as if you could ever deny us.”_

_“You—_ you _are at fault for mating him. And you—really? Because I’m about to head over to my fuck buddy’s tent where all of your Pretentious Musk or whatever will be wiped bye-bye away. See you fuckers at the next meeting or whatever.”_

_“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”_

_“I heard that!”_

_“Good! Have a sexually unsatisfying time, darling!”_

_“Stop provoking him before he—and our tent is now on fire. Again.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was blown away by the kudos/feedback of the first chapter! I really thought this might be too experimental/niche so it makes me really happy to hear people are interested. Thank you for comments, I'm going back to reply to each one right now <3 <3 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this second chapter! I know a _lot_ is happening all at once and through the POV of sedated brains. I spent so many hours editing this but I think it's time to just throw it out here and hope for the best! :)
> 
> ** side note in case people are confused: slight wording differences in the POVs are intentional and not mistakes, like Chris thinking " _the_ Guardian" versus Peter thinking " _their_ Guardian". Peter adjusts the pronouns to he/him but refuses to stop thinking _their_ Guardian while in the next chapter you'll see Chris uses Stiles. Chris uses Weres as the shorthand for Werewolf while Peter uses 'wolf


	3. Chapter 3

**☾ ☾ ☾**

Laura scents their Guardian last. Peter begrudgingly respects her for it. 

Their Guardian finally smells like _pack_. Not like Talia and her mate George. Not like smoke and mountain ash and wolfsbane. Not like blood, old and new. Not like the mixture of burnt rubber and rose perfume that permeated the air once the invisible barrier went down. No, he smelled like _pack, Hales, theirs._

No one cared about getting a little bloody from hugging their dirty Guardian. A small price to pay in exchange for coating him in layers of ‘wolves and pack humans. Any supernatural with an enhanced nose will know he belongs to someone.

Peter watches Laura wrap her arms around their Guardian with no small amount of envy. Peter and Chris’ scents are layered in with the rest of the pack but Laura’s will be most prominent on top. For the next few hours, he’ll smell distinctly of her. 

As she steps back from their Guardian, Laura’s bond erupts with fine tremors. Peter narrows his eyes. The bundle of pack bonds in his chest has slowly quieted down one by one, anchored by touching their Guardian. The alarm in Laura’s bond smothers after a second, settling down a touch too carefully neutral compared to the pack’s newly relaxed bonds.

Peter tracks Laura’s footsteps, picking up on the slight curve she makes in her way to Talia, lengthening the walk to her mother. While Laura’s taken to Alpha training like a fish to water, her emotional control remains an unconquered weakness. Peter catches the spooked widening of her eyes and parted lips before her Alpha Heir mask slips over.

Peter’s gums itch, his fangs begging to drop with the intensity of his curiosity. As Heir, she might be more sensitive to connecting with their Guardian. She’s only nineteen, a pup really, and unused to the growing enhanced senses an Alpha will have. Peter suspects her trembling bond is more than just that.

With their Guardian, Peter is preparing to always expect more. 

His and Chris’ own scenting had been...interesting. Dizzying. A lot.

The details of it are too fuzzy to grasp despite being thirty minutes ago. Mostly, Peter remembers the urge to scruff the back of their Guardian’s neck and just barely refraining from doing so. All too soon, their Guardian had pulled both Peter and Chris in for a hug and released them in an unspoken _time’s up_. 

Chris had leaned on Peter as they stepped away from their Guardian’s intoxicating presence. Peter wishes he’d paid more attention to Chris. He’d meant to guide him in the intricacies of scenting someone new. Chris had lingered behind Peter before stepping up to rub his cheek against their Guardian’s, too nervous to scent the neck like Peter had. A smart move, actually, to avoid the intimacy of their Guardian's neck. Chris’ position in the pack is…

Well, he’s _Peter’s._

Peter’s high rank is enough to let Chris slip ahead of others despite not technically being pack. If they committed as mates, Chris would have all the freedom to do what he wants.

Their Guardian claps and Peter startles, much to his embarrassment. He snaps into full Left Hand mode, calling up the necessary energy and awareness it takes for this type of situation. It’s a delicate balance of allowing his wolf to break through the surface of his consciousness without slipping into Beta shift. Normally, Peter holds back this side of his status around the pack. More than a few bonds shiver at his noticeable change. 

Peter’s wolf anchors in Chris’ calm pride, not a hint of fear.

“So, can the Left and Right Hand step forward?” their Guardian asks. His eyes flicker between Peter and Thomas. Smart little Spark. Peter wrestles control over of his wolf’s excitement.

Peter and Thomas step forward. They’ve never had anyone other than their Alpha command them. The two days of adjustment they’d had while their Guardian slept should have prepared them for this. Few things catch Peter off guard and yet tonight he struggles to find any stable ground. The reality of submitting under someone other than his Alpha has Peter simultaneously wrong-footed and filled with a sense of rightness.

“I appreciate that we have a traditional exchange to do,” their Guardian says. “I don’t mean any disrespect by skipping a few steps. I’m asking to put that exchange off until later because right now there are more urgent things. Yes?”

Peter and Thomas nod. Peter adds _practical/pragmatic_ to his observation list and notes the oddness of sparing a moment for them to confirm their agreement.

“Alright then. I have three things I need.” Their Guardian holds up a fist. “Just three things. Easy to remember. One,” he pops up a finger, “we need a perimeter check. Two,” another finger, “we need to alert packs across the continent. Three,” another finger, “clean up. Got it?”

Peter and Thomas nod again. 

Their Guardian half-smiles, a crack of amusement in his stern authority. “Thanks, guys, I’m glad you’re with me. But I’m talking to the whole pack. Did everyone hear me?” He raises his three fingers. “I want verbal confirmation. Three things—perimeter, alert packs, clean up. Say yes.”

“Yes,” Peter says along with the pack. 

“Anyone confused, raise your hands.” Their Guardian sighs when no one moves. What idiot would raise their hand? Their Guardian scans the pack with his eyes and zeros in on Cecilia. “Clementine’s mom.”

Cecilia smiles, glowing with being remembered. She nods. 

“Okay, I see we have a problem talking,” their Guardian jokes. His body loosens in a nonthreatening manner. “Do you remember the three things?”

Cecilia nods—then stops and stammers out, “Um. Perimeter. Clean. Warn the others.”

“Great!” their Guardian says, acting like a simple repeat is an amazing triumph. Cecilia’s bond thrums with pleasure. Body staying loose, their Guardian’s voice shifts back to commanding. “Alpha Talia, if you’d be so kind as to accompany me on the perimeter check?”

“Yes, Guardian Stiles,” Talia says. It’s what she would have done anyway. 

Their Guardian gives her a small smile before turning to Thomas. “Right Hand, I trust you to send out warnings. Are you up for that task?”

Thomas says, “Yes, of course, Guardian Stiles.”

“Anyone pack-adjacent with strong enough bonds will be calling to know that everyone is safe. Answering them is not the priority.” Their Guardian stands tall through the cruelty of that statement. “You must warn other packs and have their emissaries check their warding. You have permission to pass along the message that the Beacon Hills Guardian wants them to be cautious, not alarmed. I don’t believe their safety is compromised, right now.

“Start with the Western region and move from there,” he directs. “I expect you to pick a few packmates to help you out. I’d assign at least one person to handle calls from your loved ones about your safety.”

Not completely cruel then, just prioritizing. Practical.

“Yes, Guardian Stiles,” Thomas says, chest puffed out. Peter vows to resist falling into the trap of embarrassing himself by preening. 

Their Guardian turns his gaze to Peter. In the lightening night sky creeping to morning, his eyes glint brown. During all of this, Peter had been too busy or too far away to make out the color. Regret hits him hard and fast at not paying attention to their Guardian’s face during the scenting. “Left Hand,” their Guardian says and Peter doesn’t preen. He stands to attention—there’s a difference. “I trust you to oversee the,” their Guardian smiles humorously, “cleaning up.”

Peter’s lips curl up at the corner. He’s never met anyone who has smiled in the face of destruction. Even Chris treats it with seriousness. “I am a professional cleaner,” Peter says, ignoring Talia’s sharp look. Peter’s far too pleased with their Guardian’s grin to care.

“I’d say pick your team like the Right Hand but I guess this is more of a volunteer situation.” Their Guardian’s eyes flick to the pack. Losing his attention feels like being robbed of warmth. Their Guardian tells Peter's packmates, “I don’t think less of anyone who doesn’t want to see brutality. I encourage those who can stomach it to help out. At least three people is ideal.”

Unease falls over the pack. A few packmates shuffle closer to Thomas, declaring their allegiance to phone calls. The warrior members of the pack look dubious at the idea of handling the aftermath of a fight. 

Talia speaks what everyone is thinking. “Guardian Stiles, I do not question your judgement.” She pauses before continuing, “Might I say that Peter is more than capable of handling this on his own? He’s the finest Left Hand in the state and this is a stroll in the park for him.”

Peter bites his tongue at the alienation hidden under a compliment. He hears Chris’ teeth grind from behind him.

“You might say that,” their Guardian agrees. His loose body language no longer reads as friendly. His nonverbal communication is incredibly fascinating. “I have no doubt Peter is a great Left Hand.”

Okay, Peter might understand Thomas puffing out his chest. 

Talia brushing Peter into the shadows of the pack is soothed away by just from _Peter_ rolling off their Guardian’s tongue. He not only spoke Peter’s name but agreed so easily in the promised competency. 

Peter keeps his vow outwardly, allowing his wolf to do all the preening on the inside. 

“Your Right Hand doesn’t need all,” their Guardian sweeps his hand to the dozen packmates outside, “of them to help him. In fact, I’m sure some of the older pups inside could help with the calls. All I’m suggesting,” their Guardian says in a way that lacks all meaning of suggesting, “is for at least three people. Just three pack members help out your Left Hand. Efficiency is key.”

Talia has the decency to bow her head. 

Their Guardian picks up on the pack’s lingering tension, his body’s looseness returning to nonthreatening. “Look,” he makes eye contact with every member, one at a time, “I meant what I said about not thinking less of those who _can’t_. 

“I want you to know you are all safe from what happened tonight. The threat is gone. But—the threat was here. This almost happened. Do not turn a blind eye to it. That arm over there?” He waits for everyone to look. “It could have killed one of your pack,” he says easily. “A pup. Your sibling. Cousin. Parental figure. I’m not asking you to be a Left Hand. I’m asking you to help carry this knowledge with your Left Hand.” Their Guardian says with a fierceness, “That arm? It could have been your demise. Clean it up with the pride that it wasn’t.” He focuses on Peter. “Can you lead three or more people?”

Peter retracts his fangs and swears, “Yes.”

Their Guardian’s eyes roam over Peter’s face, considering. Peter hasn’t felt so desperate to be found worthy in a long time. It’s similar to the childish yearning he’d had back when he and Chris danced around each other years ago.

“Trails of light will guide you to remains throughout the woods,” their Guardian tells Peter. “Every piece must be burned. I’d help but magic shouldn’t be used for this.”

Peter nods, approving of the dedication to make sure what’s dead stays dead. He’s not looking forward to pack judegment at his detached way of working but he recognizes having help is going to make this much easier. Ordering packmates around will be fun, at least.

Peter ponders the repercussions of asking a question. He doubts there will be any intact heads and wants to know their Guardian’s plan on who is responsible.

Picking up on Peter’s train of thought, their Guardian claps his hands. “Okay! Action now, questions later. Right Hand and Left Hand, figure out your teams. If the Heir and Argent can step over with me to the Alpha, please.”

_Argent —_interesting.

The pack shamelessly watches Chris like a schoolmate called to the principal’s office. Chris, to his credit, stands tall and marches to their Guardian, following behind Laura. Peter fights the urge to eavesdrop, forcing himself to face the pack. Wearily, he readies himself for picking unwilling volunteers.

As expected, several are quick to jump to Thomas. Surprisingly, a handful of packmates hover between them. Cecilia straightens her shoulders and steps toward Peter, gaze questioning. Peter tips his head in a gesture for his niece to stand by him. A little confidence fills her and her mate steps forward next. Peter had planned on Chris being his third person—and he might still be unless he has a special task. 

Two more packmates step forward for Peter. The others don’t hide their relief in clinging on to the group returning inside.

Peter exchanges a heavy look with Thomas. Thomas gives him a curt nod before leading his group inside. It’s slightly new territory, handing out orders. Peter has led the pack before under Talia’s order with specific instructions. He’s never given the orders himself with his personal strategy in mind. 

Peter leads with less effort to charm, preferring to be quick and not stopping for opinions. Their Guardian said efficiency is key and Peter’s the only one with experience in his pack. He’s thoughtful in keeping his orders simple, allowing them to buddy up if they want, and explains thoroughly how and why they need to do what they do. Essentially, work section by section of the forest until you end up on the other side of the Preserve where Peter’s body burning disposal is and gather all evidence from flesh to clothing. Nonsupernatural fire keeps any dark magic from finding loopholes to bring people back to life.

Right on time with Peter finishing his talk, an overload of glowing red-tinted strings zips through the grass and into the surrounding forest, presumably leading to more body parts. Cecilia reaches down to pick up a piece of...something, using her claws to touch it. The string of light leading to it flashes green and disappears.

Peter’s doubt in his packmates fades into relief, hope sparking that they won’t fuck this up for him. He looks around to thank their Guardian and finds him standing alone with Chris. 

Peter has two thoughts. One, this is the first time he hasn’t kept half his attention focused on Chris while around pack. Two, that’s a sight he can get used to.

He thinks maybe he should feel more concerned about this. Or any concern.

His wolf disagrees, ridiculous with unwavering loyalty to their Guardian already.

♨ ♨ ♨

_“You’re tired.”_

_“Shut up. Go back to sleep.”_

_“Or you can shut up and sleep while I take watch.”_

_“You’re not even in the rotation. No one will trust you to keep watch.”_

_“Do you?”_

_“What?”_

_“Do you trust me to keep watch?”_

_“I don’t trust anyone. I—shit. Ignore that. I’m tired.”_

_“It’s good to not trust anyone.”_

_“Ha—yep. There it is. I’ve really missed your totally sane, rational logic.”_

_“You should trust one person. Two is even better.”_

_“You’re not subtle.”_

_“Who said I was trying to be?”_

_“I...am too tired for this. What game are you trying to play? Climb up the social ladder?”_

_“No games, darling.”_

_“Ew.”_

_“Don’t like it? How about sugar? Honey? Dear? Sweetie-pie?”_

_“Oh my god, never, ever call me sweetie-pie. Ugh. Stop smirking at me.”_

_“No, I made you smile. I just won a bet.”_

_“That’s—weird.”_

_“Is it?”_

_“You’re annoying.”_

_“Annoying enough to keep you awake, darling.”_

  
➼ ➼ ➼

Guardian Stiles walks Talia, Laura, and Chris a good distance away from the rest of the Hales. Chris’ worries about people listening in lessens. He’s not shocked at being separated. That’s three times now that the Guardian referred to Chris as Argent. Chris isn’t ignorant to the Hales glancing at him with a certain tension. Not hostile, exactly, but maybe that’s because they wouldn’t dare to be so confrontational about Chris in front of Peter.

Chris doesn’t fault them. It’s obvious tonight was done by Hunter hands and Chris’ past doesn’t paint him in an innocent light.

He received fewer stares after the scenting, which gives Chris hope. Guardian Stiles must think Chris is still one of the good Argents if he treated Chris same as the Hales.

The Guardian reminds Chris of a Hunting mentor he had briefly as a child. She’d been firm and fair with him, pushing him outside his comfort zone while making sure he understood why. He always knew he could back out if something was too much. When she diverted from the training schedule and helped him specialize in bow training because the sounds of guns still scared him, his father replaced her for being too soft with him.

Chris doesn’t feel the supernatural instinct to submit to a Guardian but he finds himself placing all his confidence in Guardian Stiles anyway. He appreciates the straightforward leadership and admires the speech on not turning a blind eye to tonight’s destruction. Chris has never thought highly of Were packs sweeping dirty details under the rug, especially now that he's with Peter and sees the toll it takes. It's a blind spot that Hunters are known to take advantage of, striking the Weres that are ignorant to how their pack gets their hands dirty. 

Guardian Stiles addresses Laura first. “We need to keep the pack strong. The Right and Left Hand are handling damage control and I understand if you choose to help either of them. However, what happened tonight was very traumatic, and dealing with that is very,” he stresses, “very important. I know the pups inside are shaken up by this and so are the adults, though they might not realize how affected they are until later. With their Alpha out with me and the Left and Right Hand busy, they’re going to feel lost. You can be a big game-changer in that. As Heir, you can be a steady presence and a great source of comfort. Do you understand that?”

“Shouldn’t I come with you and Mom?” Laura asks, words so fast Chris almost misses the question. 

“Laura,” Talia reprimands. 

Guardian Stiles ignores Talia’s apologetic look, softening rather than taking offense. He places his hand on Laura’s shoulder, eyes widening as he explains, “Taking responsibility for others is the hardest task I’m giving out tonight.” Chris thinks back to watching over the human Hales on the couch, feeling weak and helpless. Guardian Stiles insists, “I’m not pushing you in a corner. I’m asking a lot of you right now but I have faith. The pack needs to see that in the face of all this, we came out strong. Your pack needs a beacon of strength, someone they can depend on. Can you be that for them?”

Personally, Chris’ nature rebels at the idea of this task, though he’s impressed by the masterful way the Guardian spins it and how he put thought into addressing emotional health. Something about it clicks for Laura. She’s fierce and unwavering when she agrees, “Yes, Guardian Stiles.” She places her hand over Guardian Stiles’ hand on her shoulder. “You can trust me.”

“Good,” Guardian Stiles says, giving her the same praising half-smile he’s given everyone who agreed to his orders. “When in doubt, always rely on instincts. Providing is a great way to settle everyone and make them feel taken care of. Blankets, drinks, snacks—whatever you can think of. If you’re worried about someone, asking them to help you will make them feel better because it gives them a purpose. Maybe you could have some of the pack help make breakfast for when Right and Left Hand teams are done.”

Laura nods along, uncharacteristically eager to follow someone’s orders based on what Chris has witnessed in the past. Guardian Stiles gently pushes her shoulder, politely dismissing her. His eyes track her way back to the house and he doesn’t speak again until the front door is closed. Chris suppresses his anxiety, not wanting Talia to get a whiff of it.

Guardian Stiles’ gentleness fades as he regards Talia and Chris grimly. He holds his palm out and closes his eyes. Within ten seconds, thirteen holographic people hover above his hand. They’re miniaturized to less than six inches tall. Chris recognizes five of them immediately, including his cousin, Katherine.

“These are who were here tonight,” Guardian Stiles says quietly, eyes opening to stare at Talia. Chris is thankful for having a moment to compose himself. _Katherine_. Katherine did this. Katherine is dead. The Guardian standing before Chris killed his cousin. His cousin tried to burn Chris and all the Hales alive. “None escaped,” Guardian Stiles says in a polite way of _I killed them all_. Or more accurately, blew them up. “We can discuss this on our walk, Alpha Talia.” 

There’s no pity or softness for Chris in Guardian Stiles’ eyes. “You can go with your mate,” if Chris wasn’t hyper-aware of Talia’s presence, he is now, “to clean up, if you want. I think it would be more productive for you to start gathering information based on what you know and compile the relevant details. Would keeping the holograms help?”

Chris nods. Feeling Talia's gaze, he clears his throat. “Yes." He adds, "Guardian Stiles."

Guardian Stiles nods, eyebrows raising slightly at the title, and turns back to Talia, having a quick exchange about her checking in with her pack and meeting back up for their perimeter check. Chris wonders if the reasoning behind excusing Talia is in his favor or not.

Once Talia’s in the house, Guardian Stiles sighs and abandons his straight posture. “What a fucking night,” he says. He stretches his hand out. “You sure you want them?”

Chris stares at his mini-sized cousin. Her face is set to neutral, at odds with Chris’ remembrance of her twisted up sneer. The last words she’d said to him, forever lurking in the corner of his mind, float to the surface. _Even Mommy dearest wouldn’t have forgiven her baby boy for this._

Gritting his teeth, Chris holds out his arm. The Hunters flicker out of the Guardian’s palm and onto Chris’. They hover a centimeter above his skin but Chris instantly feels weighted down with the Hales’ almost-killers in his hand. 

“Don’t be so symbolic,” Guardian Stiles says. Chris jerks, tearing his gaze away from the Hunters. The Guardian moves on as if he hadn't just chided Chris like Peter does, explaining, “If you close your hand, you make them smaller. If you put your other hand above them and raise it, you make them bigger. If you turn your hand upside down, they’ll fall and stand on the floor or whatever surface you want. If you want them gone, just flick their faces and they’ll disappear.” The Guardian puts his pointer finger and thumb together in a demonstration, flicking the air. “Just like that.”

Chris closes his fist, watching the figures shrink, and drops his arm to hang at his side, hoping to hide them from the Hales for a little while. Peter’s going to be massively intrigued by the magic and absolutely delighted with the silly way of making them disappear. 

Shoulders back, Chris waits for questions to come about his involvement. Guardian Stiles digs his hand into his back pocket and Chris tenses, wondering what type of evidence he’s going to pull out. An Argent pendant? 

A wallet. Guardian Stiles takes out a wallet. Did he really stop to pick-pocket a Hunter before blowing them up? 

Guardian Stiles unfolds and stretches the mouth of the wallet, peering at the inside. Chris makes out the tip of a dollar bill. After a long moment of just staring, the Guardian wordlessly closes it and slides it back in his pocket. His pinched lips relax into a shadow of a smile. 

Bewildered, Chris keeps waiting. The Guardian bends down and touches the earth. Strings of red light pool from his fingertips and criss-cross over each other into the trees.

At the base of his neck, there’s a strip of muddy red-brown. During the scenting, most of the Hales wiped the blood onto themselves. Chris’ fingers twitch at the sight of the missed spot.

Guardian Stiles tilts his head to look up at Chris. From this angle, dark circles under the Guardian’s eyes stand out.

“Do you...you said you used all your energy...Do you,” Chris trails off again, trying to find a way to express concern without being rude. 

If the Guardian believed in Chris enough to not question him about being involved with tonight, Chris wants to repay the kindness by asking after his health. Also, he feels like _someone_ should be asking after the Guardian and if the Hales are held back by some Guardian guidelines than Chris is happy to step in. 

Guardian Stiles raises an eyebrow, standing up. “Do _you_?”

Chris grimaces. He doesn’t—to whatever is the second half of that question. Mentally, physically, emotionally, Chris is drained in all aspects. He’s not sure if Guardian Stiles is rebuffing him or equating them by throwing Chris' question back at him. If he's implying he feels as shit as Chris does, Chris has no idea how he’s still using magic. 

Guardian Stiles tilts his head, appraising Chris with narrowed eyes. “Can I touch your head?”

Without thinking, Chris says, “Yes.”

He barely keeps himself from jolting at Guardian Stiles casually cupping Chris’ cheek. The Guardian’s hand is cold, lacking a Were’s body heat. His palm presses firm, thumb curving a little under Chris’ jaw. 

It’s a drastically different experience than when Chris had scented Guardian Stiles. Chris had been so determined to leave his mark that he failed to really take in the moment until it was over. It had been overwhelming and awkward on Chris’ part.

This, however, is strangely grounding and the moment stretches far longer than Chris knows it really is. The world falls away, honey brown unfocused eyes hypnotizing Chris. 

Guardian Stiles’ gaze sharpens suddenly. Blinking, it takes Chris a moment to feel the loss of the Guardian’s hand. His headache and exhaustion are gone.

Chris furrows his eyebrows, his brain scrambled in too many emotions. He has enough awareness to say thank you, though he’s upset at taking more energy away from the Guardian.

Guardian Stiles waves the gratitude away. “Eh. You have harder work to do than me.”

Chris bets that’s not true. Guardian Stiles grins at Chris’ skeptical pause. 

“Hey, work is relative to the person. In the scheme of things, what I’m doing is not bad considering. You, however.” The Guardian’s gaze flickers to Chris’ closed fist. “Will you be okay?”

Chris’ fingers tighten around the holograms. “Yes.” Chris deflects by dryly saying, “Although, if this isn’t bad considering what you’re used to, I’m not sure I want to know more about your life.”

Laughter bursts out of Guardian Stiles, his whole body shaking. “Oh, buddy,” he says, snickering, and claps Chris on the shoulder. “Go to your mate before his laser eyes of curiosity kill me.”

Chris gives up—for today—on telling the Guardian that they’re boyfriends, not mates. It sounds juvenile even in his head. He sighs and leaves with another thanks, glad to be excused to Peter and not the house.

Peter acting as Left Hand is always intense to be around, his every movement screaming predator. It’s beautiful, not that Chris has said that word out loud. Peter meets Chris half-way across the front yard and pulls him in for a hug, aggressively rubbing his cheek against Chris’. 

It’s the same side of Chris’ face that Guardian Stiles had touched, the same cheek Chris realizes he scented the Guardian with. Peter presses his nose into Chris' skin, taking a long, audible sniff. His chest rumbles loudly on his exhale.

Peter’s been so wolfish since the Nemeton activated that Chris wouldn’t be surprised if he does something weird like lick Chris’ cheek. He chooses to lick into Chris’ mouth instead, kissing him deeply in a rare display of PDA.

Chris pulls back first, a little too out of it to kiss back right now, and presses his forehead to Peter’s, soaking up the affection. He hates being torn from Peter’s side for the next however many hours and hates not being able to talk together. 

“You’ll be okay?” Chris murmurs as quietly as he can.

“Yes,” Peter says, the word heavy with everything unsaid. Mainly frustration. Belatedly, he asks, “Will you?”

Chris grunts. He considers opening his hand to show the holograms. His fist tightens. “I’ll be in the basement library.”

Peter presses a chaste kiss to Chris’ lips and backs up, eyes roaming over Chris for several steps backward before he turns and joins the pack members waiting under his order. Chris ignores their stares and marches up the porch stairs. Opening the door, he spares a peek toward the Guardian.

Guardian Stiles catches his eyes and raises a hand to flick the air. Chris’ lips twitch and the Guardian grins. It’s easy to see how he attracted the attention of a nymph, pixie, and fae.

  
  


♨ ♨ ♨

_Sheer willpower keeps him standing upright and walking. He’s tempted to lean against the shoulder bumping into his._

_“Do you ever think ‘what the fuck is our life’?”_

_“When you create tornados by twirling your finger, I do.”_

_“You gotta admit that was kind of cool. You totally think magic is cool now.”_

_“I never thought magic was not-cool.”_

_“Stop pretending you were always a good person. You hated it when I started magic. Like, you even took me aside to tell me so.”_

_“That didn’t make me a bad person. Magic is dangerous and you have a history of being reckless.”_

_“Whatever, admit it was cool.”_

_“What do I get out of this transaction?”_

_“Me taking away that hella bad migraine you definitely have?”_

_“No. You’re already low on energy.”_

_“I’m just going to do it when you’re not paying attention, then. But fine, if you say it’s cool then I’ll take back that time I chose to kill you in a game of kiss, marry, kill.”_

_“You killed_ me _?”_

_“I mean, hypothetically, yeah.”_

_“Who were the other options?”_

_“A gentlemen never kisses and tells. Or marries and tells.”_

_“But you’ll say who you kill.”_

_“Oh, for sure.”_

_“Fine. Magic is...cool.”_

_“Yes! I officially retract my choice to kill you.”_

_“...was this game recently? Or back then?”_

_“If you let me take away your migraine, I’ll tell you. Oh my god, you’re actually considering it. Wow. What the fuck is_ my _life.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switched it up starting with Peter's POV first! I hope everyone enjoyed this update :) 
> 
> Thank you so, so, so much for your kudos and comments <3 <3 <3 It really means a lot <3


	4. Chapter 4

☾ ☾ ☾

“Maybe Thomas should be the one to try and see them?”

“Him,” Thomas corrects before Peter can.

“Right,” Talia murmurs, “him.” She leans her hip against the desk with a sigh. “I hardly believe we have a Guardian. I keep forgetting we’re not talking hypothetically.”

Peter can relate to the former but certainly not the latter. He’s so very aware that this isn’t hypothetical. Their Guardian is always on his mind, whether in the forefront or side or back-burner. 

He’s like Peter’s shadow, never far away and there to consume him at night. Peter’s slowly driving himself mad lying in bed at night, unable to sleep, thinking of one Guardian question that has a dozen possible answers, each of those possibilities breeding their own new questions.

“It says here,” Thomas flips back a page and points to a passage, “that one Guardian was treated like a Goddess and their people left out food and gifts for them.”

Peter crosses his arms. “Yes, and that is all it says. It doesn’t specify what species that Guardian is. For all we know, they could be a Goddess. It doesn’t say which Nemeta continent either, meaning we don’t know the species of the community the Guardian protected. For all we know, treating their Guardian like a Goddess might tell us more about the community’s species, and their customs, than the Guardian’s species.”

“For all we know, Guardian Stiles might replace the duties of a Left Hand,” Thomas points out.

The most awful thing about Peter’s annoying older brother is he doesn’t engage in witty banter. Thomas truly spoke that as a neutral statement with no intention of offending Peter.

“Our Guardian might replace all of us,” Peter snaps.

“What about Deaton?” Talia says. 

Thomas and Peter turn to look at her. She moves around the table to sit in the Alpha chair. Peter continues to be unimpressed with the fact that their council room has a round table to imply, in here, all opinions are equal—and then have every chair be the same except for a gaudy cushion monstrosity on four wooden pegs for the Alpha.

Closing The Book of Guardians, Talia silently expresses this discussion is coming to an end. An end Peter probably won’t like, considering Talia’s question. By the time he was fifteen, Peter had smartened up to have low expectations for council room sessions, especially when it’s between only the three of them.

They’ve never dissected The Book of Guardians together before and Peter is immensely grateful. As a teenager, he loathed learning his pack status lessons alone because of the age gap between him and his siblings. His brother and sister, born in the same year, had taken their lessons together while Peter fumbled behind them over a decade later. He distinctly remembers the loneliness of having no one to share the giddiness of learning sacred Guardian knowledge.

After five, going on six, hours of analyzing a single sentence in The Book, Peter’s perspective has shifted. Thank the Moon he never studied with Talia and Thomas.

He never knew ‘wolves could get those horrible human headaches that start with an M. How do humans deal with this? No wonder Chris gets so pissy when he has a headache. 

“Deaton’s an insult,” Peter says.

Talia purses her lips.

“What? It’s simple logic. Our Guardian is here to protect Beacon Hills. Deaton’s a mere consultant on occasion. To equate him to a Guardian is beyond insulting.”

“He is our Emissary, not a consultant.”

Peter raises one eyebrow in a silent is _he, though?_

Thomas clears his throat uncomfortably, notably saying nothing. 

“Since you have all the answers, Peter, what do you propose?” Talia at least has the intelligence to know she dishes out purposeful digs, unlike her Right Hand.

“He has the capabilities and experience of a warrior,” Peter gestures to himself, “and he easily wields authority,” he gestures to Talia, “but we’ve yet to see how he is communication-wise,” he says, gesturing to Thomas.

“Thomas is a good candidate, then,” Talia says. “As I have said.”

“Thomas believes we should treat him like a God,” Peter deadpans. “No offense, brother.”

“None taken, Left Hand. It’s a good idea,” Thomas says.

_Nature, give me strength_. “Our Guardian initiated both of our statuses,” Peter tells Talia. “He defended pack home without our asking. He asked for your input on ordering the pack _after_ he did so. I don’t think it’s up to us on how to establish our pack relationship with him. Thomas shouldn’t approach him because he will approach us.”

“To be clear, you are saying we should do...nothing.” Talia waits expectantly for Peter to speak up. Peter blinks at her. She adds, “This is coming from you.”

Peter nods with a proper amount of annoyance. As Left Hand, he will do nothing. As _Peter_ , he may do what he pleases. 

“If Peter agrees to doing nothing, I think that’s a sign that we shouldn’t,” Thomas says. Talia looks more appeased.

Peter resists pinching the bridge of his nose and releasing a heartfelt groan. 

“Very well, we will wait for him. It is more respectful. Yes, it is rather offensive to assume incorrectly on how to proceed. Once he tells us how we can appreciate him, we’ll double our efforts for not doing so earlier.” Talia stands from her throne—excuse Peter, he meant _chair_. “Meeting dismissed.”

They exit the room, Talia turning left to her room at the end of the hall, and Thomas turning right to his room at the opposite end of the hall. Peter rolls his eyes and moves one door down from the council room, into his private study. He opens the hidden latch in the far corner and jumps down into his bedroom on the floor below. He secures the secret latch door.

Letting out the sigh that’s been building in his chest for nearly six hours, Peter rolls his shoulders. He waits for his irritation to sink back under before turning to the bed.

Chris pulls the bed covers back, eyes trained on the book he’s reading. Peter slides into bed and Chris absently tucks the covers over him. The pounding headache slips away into a dull presence. 

“Read me a bedtime story?”

“Do you prefer a human being disemboweled for accidentally destroying a pixie’s home or fourteen pages of the blandest retelling of a pixie leading a traveler astray?”

“Disemboweled,” Peter says immediately.

Chris chuckles, setting the book down to face Peter. He has his reading glasses on, perched on the edge of his nose. Peter adores it. 

Stealing the glasses off Chris’ face, Peter slides them on and squints. “You’re so old.”

Chris snatches them back, grumbling, and sets them on the bedside table. Peter pouts. He hates when his actions have consequences. 

“I’m only six years older,” Chris says.

“Old.”

“At least I’m not a baby.”

“Christopher, you know that insult is banned after I deal with my siblings. I’m almost thirty.”

“I apologize for hurting your fragile baby ego.”

Peter bares his teeth.

Huffing, Chris reaches out and pushes Peter’s head down, forcing him to slide down the bed fully horizontal. Peter allows the manhandling for the promise of Chris’ hand staying on his head. Sure enough, Chris combs his fingers through Peter’s hair with one hand, picking the book back up with the other. 

“Go to sleep, Peter.”

Peter doesn’t point out that the light’s still on. Whether it’s dark or not, he has at least three hours of thoughts on their Guardian to sift through before he passes out. He nudges his head into Chris’ touch, curious about the interest in pixies. 

Their Guardian had been friends with fae. People leave out gifts for faeries similar to winning the favor of Gods and Goddesses. 

Peter refuses to believe their Guardian picked up fae culture and that Thomas is right. 

♨ ♨ ♨

_“Are you ever jealous?”_

_“Jealous? Hand me that map. What, of you or couples?”_

_“Here you go,_ your Highness _. Would you like me to hand feed you some grapes?”_

_“If you wouldn’t be creepy about it, yeah. Also, this is the wrong map.”_

_“No, this is the new one with my edits. I was talking about…your sessions.”_

_“Oh my god, are you so jealous you won’t even say their name?”_

_“Maybe I just can’t pronounce it.”_

_“Riiiight. But no. Thank god. Among, like, a bajillion reasons, I hate meditating. The level of connection you need to build is like...I don’t know. I guess for you it’d be like howling at the moon in the daylight when you can barely see it, all day every day for at least three years. Just watching the process is exhausting. It’s like my soul is sucked out of my body when I help out indirectly.”_

_“Hm.”_

_“These edits are really good, by the way. I could probably sway enough people to get you in on some of the meetings.”_

_“I should be the one swayed into sharing my priceless intellect.”_

_“Oh, like I swayed you into letting me in your tent?” He laughs, pushing his work aside to give his undivided attention. “You were like one day away from legit offering to hand feed me grapes to lure me in here. Bro, you have no dignity, just let it go.”_

_“You know how I feel about you calling me bro, darling.”_

_“Yeah, well, shove it up your ass and come explain where the fuck this lake came from.”_

☾ ☾ ☾

Talia and Thomas are fielding phone call after phone call. The pups are clinging onto and trailing after all the adults, either from misunderstanding the loss in their chest is from their Guardian’s disappearance or from the fright of the fire. Packmates from within the Beacon Hills town are cluttering up pack home, suddenly no longer in need of their own houses. Bertie’s kid has gone into the teething phase and wails constantly. Laura and Derek are acting shifty for reasons Peter would normally investigate if things weren’t so crazy. 

Chris’ agitation at not returning to their apartment is about to tip over into a fight.

Peter rips a low-hanging branch off a tree trunk and then snaps it in half.

Tossing it aside, he considers ripping off another. Something lurking in the back of his mind nudges him with disapproval. _Fine_ , he thinks, stalking forward. But he refuses to feel bad about tearing off that branch! He’s smacked into it three times despite knowing this forest like the back of his hand.

A brush of wind shakes tree leaves to float down on Peter.

He wants to tear his claws into something. By the time Peter had returned from burning the body parts, their Guardian had finished the perimeter check with Talia, scented the packmates who were indoors, and ran off into the woods saying he had a date with the Nemeton and to not wait up for him—or so Chris had told Peter.

Of course, Peter had waited that night for him to return. He, Talia, and Thomas all waited up while they went over everything. Talia had been tight-lipped about her conversation with their Guardian on the perimeter walk. Peter’s impatient for her to hurry the fuck up and pull him aside to confess the dirty details.

Chris had waited up, too, going over Hunter information, and promised Peter he wouldn’t get rid of the holograms until Peter can get a good look at them, which he still hasn't been able to.

Their Guardian did not come back that night. Or the next. Or the next. 

By day three of their Guardian’s disappearance, Peter had stopped coming across deer in the Preserve. Now on day five, he’s seen no animal other than birds. 

The forest has always felt alive to Peter, to his wolf, but it’s never felt so sentient. Chris wouldn’t believe that the forest is hiding deer from Peter’s bloodthirst but Peter’s an expert tracker. He _knows_ something is going on. 

Certain smells are in different areas, leading him back out of the woods instead of into the middle of it. Yes, Peter will admit that his frustration is keeping him from being at the top of his game. Being distracted enough to walk in the same circle three times? That’s not in the realm of possibility. Even if he’d become a useless idiot walking in circles, he’d never run into a branch.

Peter doesn’t run into things. He’s graceful and observant and hyperaware of his surroundings. Not a goddamn clumsy pup.

Rubbing his eyes, Peter tries to wipe away the sight of his footprints leading off the trail to the right. He knows he hasn’t walked that way. Right? He’d entered from the east end and those footsteps are coming from the west. 

Peter bends down and sniffs. The footprints smell like him, and like he’s been here recently. Wind shakes more leaves raining down, making Peter pause to pick them out of his hair. The sweet scent of roses wafts through the forest, there and gone before Peter can get a proper inhale.

Peter growls. The forest is playing a game with Peter and the rules are impossible to decipher—if there even are concrete rules.

Bushes rustling capture his attention. He stays in his crouch, adjusting to a position for a good pounce if need be. Has the forest taken mercy on him and brought him a deer?

“Laura?”

“Uncle Peter?”

Laura and Peter stare at each other, both wolfed out. They should have recognized each other’s scent, footsteps, bond, and more from a mile away. Peter melts back in his human features as he stands, composing his pent up frustration.

Now that they’re in front of each other, Peter can pick up her heartbeat, a little too fast, and smell the beginnings of distress.

Picturing Chris making coffee in the mornings at their apartment, the soft silence of waking up together, Peter does a quick breathing exercise to steady his heart. 

He quirks an eyebrow at Laura.

“I’m taking a walk,” Laura says, crossing her arms in an act that’s more defensive than defiant. Her claws catch on her shirt, causing little tears. Peter gives her props for managing to not glance down at the minor destruction. Her eyes still widen in surprise, unfortunately for her.

Peter debates if he should inform her of that obvious tell. That’s Talia’s job—Peter puts off giving a lecture for when Laura’s older if this persists. For now, he’ll take advantage of the information she easily gives away.

Out of touch with her wolf? Peter decides not to mention it, lull her into a false sense of security that he hasn’t noticed the oddness of her staying in the shift.

“This is a long walk for a small break,” Peter comments.

“Mom’s busy,” Laura says—so she has been wandering the woods for a while. (Talia really should teach her how to spot an assumption and how not to blatantly confirm it.)

“It’s a busy time to be an Alpha.”

Laura tilts her chin up. “Training says a Guardian doesn’t need a Protector. Mom says we’re not supposed to go into the woods.”

“You don’t read The Book for another year,” Peter says, unfazed. “My training was different than yours, as you should know. I’m not sneaking behind your mother’s back.” Technically. It’s not sneaking when she knows he’s doing it but doesn’t waste the energy to stop him. “It’s my daily routine to monitor the Preserve.” Laura’s locking into her defiance with every word out of Peter’s mouth. Rolling his eyes, Peter decides to treat her like a pup. “Laura, shift back and tell me why you’re really out here.”

“I needed some fresh air.” Her face stays controrted in wolfish features, claws and fangs out.

Peter switches tactics again. “You wouldn’t have been tricked off the forest path unless you came out here searching for our Guardian.”

Laura’s tension bleeds out of her body, her demeanor brightening. “You got lost, too!”

Peter’s lips curl up, a little endeared by Laura’s youth and a little smug that his slight confession worked. “I’m watching over our territory but yes, I can’t get close to the Nemeton.”

Laura walks over, coming to sit down on a fallen tree log next to Peter, exposing her vulnerable flank to him. She idly runs her claws through the bark. Her fangs recede for a moment. They come back as she asks, “Do you think he made us bump into each other?”

Peter genuinely considers. 

Coordinating this would distract the two of them out of their search. On the other hand, Peter had hit that tree branch three times, which points to a repetition of non-personal magic—not shifting pathways with a consciousness. 

This can be a coincidence of them falling into the same magically programmed detour.

Then again, Peter did feel an outside force of disapproval for thinking about ripping more tree branches. He’s either being closely watched over or general magic is spread throughout the forest to sense ill intent.

What’s more important for now is why Laura thinks their Guardian would push them together.

“He’d have a good reason for meddling,” Peter says.

Laura smiles at the forest floor, digging her bare feet through the dirt. “He seems like he’d like to meddle. Do you think he could be a trickster God?”

“The pups would love that.” Peter steps closer, choosing to lean against a tree trunk with an air of packmate nonchalance. “Is your uncle Thomas going on about him being a God?”

“He thinks all Guardians are.”

Peter rolls his eyes again. Laura’s face is still cast downward. Her fingers flex, digging her claws deeper into the wood. Peter waits her out, making a show of shifting to get comfortable against the tree trunk.

Laura takes longer to crack than he’d expected and her thoughts aren’t what he’d imagined. “Will we train together?”

Peter’s watched over Laura since she’d been born. Lucy, the Left Hand before Peter, had a suspicion that Laura’s bond would shift next to Talia’s as the Alpha Heir. When Peter’s dad died and Talia officially took leadership with the inherited Spark, Lucy’s prediction turned out to be true. Laura’s tiny pup bond pulled sharper in the pack’s chests, prominent next to Talia’s.

Lucy had impressed upon Peter that if he was to truly succeed, there’d be uncomfortable murmurs about him having Seer blood. She taught him how to pick apart and absorb every piece of information, how to perceive everything. 

Peter’s known Laura’s imagination for her reign as Alpha before she knew it herself. He’s been waiting for years, ten to be exact, to press this button.

“You should know the answer to that. Why?” Peter asks carelessly, “Are you thinking about Derek?”

Laura’s head whips up to gape at Peter. “Derek?” The half-screech answers the real question Peter had been asking. “But,” Laura says, “but—he’s too old. I thought he’d be…”

“What have you learned about a Second Hand? It’s not only about who you trust. It’s about their talents.”

“Derek has lots of talents!”

Peter tilts his head in sincere agreement. “Do they include a Right or Left Hand’s?”

Laura lifts her gaze from Peter’s stare, looking up at the patches of sky between the leaves. Silence hangs between them as a chickadee calls out its _hey-sweetie_ chirps that remind Peter of running through the woods in the summer. 

Laura admits, “He wouldn’t be happy.”

_It’s not about happiness_ , Peter thinks. Laura’s not his to train, though.

“She’s so little,” Laura says, getting to the heart of the matter. There’s no spluttering like Peter throwing out Derek’s name and there’s no mentioning of happiness—just a sad remark in resignation.

Peter’s bitterness is soothed by how small Laura sounds. Her epiphany is younger than Peter had guessed, a new awareness he hasn’t seen in her before. 

Peter wonders if Talia ever had this conversation growing up. She’d been better at her emotional control than Laura. The only hint Peter ever got from her was the way she excessively scented him whenever he went through his eager phases about his status.

Peter listens to the lone chickadee, trying to pinpoint where it is. He’s not going to offer reassurance or platitudes that she never chose to be the Heir either.

“She knows,” Peter says eventually. They haven’t talked about it, yet, but he knows she knows, young as she is.

“And we won’t have lessons together?”

“Not really, no.” 

Laura changes the subject, asking, “Was it weird doing your lessons alone?”

The last puzzle piece of Laura’s walk through the forest slides into place. Peter hears her loneliness, something he’d never considered she’d experience like he had.

Loneliness in an Alpha is dangerous. Laura’s not changing back because her anchor has weakened. No wonder she’s been acting so shifty. It explains Derek’s oddness—his wolf must sense Laura fruitlessly trying to cling onto him. But he’s not her Right Hand. And Laura isn’t able to anchor in her Left Hand, either. Cora still has a few more years before that can happen.

Until Laura has the steady rock of her high ranks, she should be secure by being tethered to Talia. 

Laura’s shock during the scenting springs forward in Peter’s mind, emerging from all the more important issues Peter’s had to deal with. He holds back a groan. 

_Really, Laura?_

Maybe Peter should convince Talia to let him sit in on her lessons. Laura should know better. She should have the control to not let her wolf latch completely onto their Guardian as if he’s her Alpha.

_Nature and Moon, give me strength._ Peter exhales, not bothering to answer Laura’s question. His non-answer is an answer in itself.

Neither of them will stumble upon their Guardian today. Laura seeking out their Guardian to settle her wolf is a useless endeavor. If the Guardian stays away for a few more days, Laura’s problem is going to become obvious to the rest of the pack. Peter can help Laura shift back by using the mantras that pups learn before they understand anchoring and hope she figures this mess out on her own. Handling this is not Peter’s responsibility.

The sweetness of roses passes by again. The forest is driving him crazy. 

Or…Peter can see if she can pull out of Beta shift herself by nudging her into connecting with the forest. 

If the forest has become sentient, woken up by the Nemeton’s activation, then Laura won’t be able to anchor. If she manages to find the tiniest piece of anchoring her wolf while here...their Guardian is here, in the wind and trees and nature, influencing the woods himself and watching over them. It’s not programmed magic, it’s him.

“Lessons can be lonely,” Peter says, pushing away from the tree. “Have you tried tracking our Guardian or are you focused on finding the path to the Nemeton?”

Laura looks away from the sky, her eyes wide. “What’s the difference?”

“Here, come with me.”

♨ ♨ ♨ 

_“You’re going to help me,” he says with confidence he doesn’t feel. Fake it until you make it, right?_

_“Am I? I thought we had a deal on not interacting unless literal death is at our doors.”_

_“You know what’s happened. It’s getting..._ I’m _getting…”_

_“Yes, if you recall, I’m the one who suggested magic.”_

_“Yes, yes, you were right, okay? Just.” He clenches his hands into fists. “Please.”_

_“Alright, calm down. Here, lose it and I’ll kill you. I’m out of town for the next week. Read as much as you want and then slip the key under the door before I return.”_

_“Because you trust me unsupervised? Or because you’d rather I steal something than have to spend time with me?”_

_“Yes.”_

_On his third day of copying down as much information as he can, he takes a break to skim over a flimsy children’s book. Half-way through there’s a page corner turned down as a bookmark. He unfolds it, finding a passage on how little kids often use a physical object to center their magic. Bracelet, necklace, brooch, a special rock to carry in your pocket—something that they have on them always._

_An idea forms._

☾ ☾ ☾

Peter pulls himself up into his study on the fifth floor. He’d hoped sneaking Chris in there would keep their oncoming fight off for a little longer. In here, he can make phone calls without the rest of the pack eavesdropping. 

Chris shuffles papers on Peter’s desk, not acknowledging Peter’s presence. Well, shit. Peter counts backward in his head. It has been over a week of them staying in pack home. This probably is the longest Chris has ever stayed that many nights in a row. 

They haven't had and won’t have a chance to have a private conversation until they return to their apartment—Peter at least sympathizes with Chris on that level. He’s desperate to openly discuss this shitstorm together.

“Have fun in the woods?” Chris asks. He uncaps a pen and aggressively draws an _X_ over one paper.

“Ran into Laura.”

Chris hesitates, seeming to waver between staying pissed or giving into to curiosity. He moves around the desk to a different paper and starts writing. Absently, he asks, “And?”

“She was looking for our Guardian.” Peter walks over to his bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines. A pang of guilt runs through him—none of these are helpful to Chris. 

He doesn’t bring up Laura’s anchoring problem. He’s still mulling it over. She hadn’t been able to pull out of the shift by herself but Peter suspects that has to do with her having a mental block rather than the forest not having enough of their Guardian’s energy in it for her to grab onto.

“I’m starting to wonder if our Guardian is ever going to come back,” Peter says.

“He’ll come back.”

Peter knows they haven’t had a chance to talk privately but surely Chris wouldn’t hold information like this back. “Did he say something to you?”

Chris snorts. “No. More whimsical—or seen as whimsical by humans—creatures don’t have a good perception of time passing, like the different species he’s spent time with. From my read on him, he seems aloof. I wouldn’t be surprised if he thinks he’s only been gone a day.”

Peter turns on his heel and leans back against his shelves, watching Chris fuss over his notes. Chris is so, so clever and Peter loves him and wants to hear everything he has to say.

But Peter’s also prickly in the midst of all of this. He knows Chris isn’t being condescending about knowing more about their Guardian. He isn’t a packmate or outsider ‘wolf challenging Peter.

It’s hard staying rational in pack home.

“Does it matter?” (Yes, it does.) “Talia, Thomas, and I argued for six hours about the proper way to approach him. Maybe he’s a mix of cultures, sure, but all we can do is wait for him to come to us.” 

Chris caps his pen and straightens up from hunching over the desk. He crosses his arms with an unimpressed expression at Peter’s snappish attitude. “You debated that for six hours?” Chris asks. “The answer is simple. He’s treating you like wolves.”

Peter raises his eyebrows in a _tread carefully_ expression.

“I’m not insulting you.” Chris huffs. He moves to stand in front of Peter, the closeness reassuring. “I’m saying he’s playing into your instincts. He took care of the humans first during the fire, knowing that the Weres’ first thought would be about their ‘fragile’ members. He’s practical above everything but he let us waste time scenting him before handling the aftermath. And even in his orders, he acted the same—

“He let Talia follow him for a perimeter check, like she would have done as an alpha wolf needing to know her pack’s safe. The focus should have been on calling other packs to warn them, but he took time to tell your brother that he should call pack-adjacent—filling your brother’s wolf-need to confirm every Weres’ safety. 

“He gave you a team to order around so you could have a sense of control in protecting the pack when you didn’t get to fight like usual and let you set fire to the remains, satisfying your bloodlust. 

“I’m not sure what’s going on with Laura but he calmed her down by telling her to make food for the pack, kicking in her need to provide. Then he came inside, which I know you missed, but I bet you can still smell him around the house, can’t you? He touched as many things as he could before he ran off again. 

“He’s playing into your instincts,” Chris repeats with a confident finality.

Peter had picked up on some of that. He never considering seeing them as dots to connect for a bigger picture. 

Taking care of humans first is so ingrained he hadn’t thought that was an option to decide on—it’s just what is right. The scenting had been a courtesy in Peter’s eyes, not a calculated move. He noticed their Guardian giving Peter a sense of control with ordering people, though that fell in the background as he’d been distracted by their Guardian’s speech on how pack should help carry the burden of a Left Hand. Laura—Peter had noticed she stayed home but he hadn’t known their Guardian pep-talked her to provide. 

He completely missed the purposefully scenting the house. It does smell like strange dirt, sweat, and an artificial sweetness on the first floor, a scent that's kept the 'wolves downstairs and relaxed.

All this time, Peter appreciated their Guardian knowing ‘wolf culture and how to _react_ to ‘wolves. He never considered that the pack was the one reacting—that their Guardian has been triggering their instincts.

“Son of a Hunter,” Peter swears.

Chris’ lips tugged up in a pleased smirk. He’d long since lost insult to that phrase.

“He’s not treating us like a Guardian,” Peter says, “he’s treating us like he’s a caretaker of pups.”

Chris uncrosses his arms to waves his hand in a _go on_ gesture. “And?”

“He’ll accept contact from us by following the pattern he’s set.” Peter fully acknowledges his wolf’s insistent begging to provide. “He wouldn’t blink an eye if we brought him food. If we go into the forest with a meal for him, we’d probably be led right to the Nemeton.”

Chris grins. Peter sets aside his speeding thoughts to give Chris a deep, appreciative kiss. Chris tugs Peter closer, kissing back with a passion Peter wants nothing more than to give into. Soon, Peter thinks, pulling back. He’ll listen to Chris and try to sneak them away to their apartment tomorrow. 

“I can’t wait to see the look on Talia’s face when I repeat that to her,” Peter says. “What are my chances of being the one to deliver the food?”

“If up to your sister? No chance. Depending on who she chooses, you have a seventy percent chance of persuading them to let you go.”

“I like those odds.” Peter thinks about what meal is most impressive and nutritious to present to their Guardian. “Do you—”

A loud bang of the downstairs doors opening interrupts Peter. 

“What is it?” Chris asks, his human hearing not picking up what has Peter tilting his head.

_“What’s up? Everyone healthy and alive? Anyone feel like sandwiches? I’m starving! Also, that lemonade looks delicious. Which lovely person made that and do you have enough made that I could have a glass?”_

“Son of a Hunter,” Peter says. He drags a hand down his face. Fucking unbelievable. No— _too_ believable. 

“He’s back and asking for food, isn’t he,” Chris says with far too much mirth.

Well, technically Peter is right in saying their Guardian would communicate first. Take that, older brother. 

He’s not quite a fan of their Guardian being two steps ahead of him, however. Maybe Chris can help Peter figure out the rules to this impossible game. 

♨ ♨ ♨

_“I’m so hungry. I’m so fucking hungry I’m going to die. I’m going to die and everyone will be fucked and—oh my god, raisins, I’m going to cry.”_

_“Yes, feel free to eat my food.”_

_“Ignore him, he’s just grumpy that you’ve been gone for so long. Eat slower. You’re going to choke.”_

_“Oh, as if you weren’t just as grumpy, Mister Repress Emotions.”_

_“That’s rich coming from Emotions Are Beneath Me.”_

_“Not that this weird foreplay isn’t entertaining but—oh. S’all…spinning? I...huh.”_

_“Shit. Get the—”_

_“On it. Get him on the mattress.”_

_“S’rry.”_

_“Sh. We’ve got you, baby.”_

_“No.”_

_“If you’re going to be a corpse in our tent, we get to call you whatever we want. Drop your goddamn illusion. How dehydrated are you?”_

_“I-D-K.”_

_“I’m going to strangle you one of these days.”_

_“Hav’ta catch me first.”_

_“We have caught you. You just need to stop escaping.”_

But others don’t see through me like you do, _he thinks,_ I can still trick others. _He speaks a garbled mix of syllables._

_“Please tell me you did not just say ‘gingerbread man’.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're missing Chris like me, next chapter is all his POV. 
> 
> I hope this chapter wasn't too angsty? I don't have a good perception of what is angst or not when I'm writing. I had a rough week so I worked on a lot of the fluffier parts of the story and when I got back to tying this chapter up I was like...oh?
> 
> Thank you all so much for the continued support <3 I'm happy to hear people like the intrigue! I can't express how much I appreciate your comments so I'll just keep saying thank you each chapter :) Normally I'd go and reply to them after posting but I'm really tired, I promise to respond tomorrow!


	5. Chapter 5

Chris stops at the bottom of the staircase, taking stock of the scene before entering it. The Hales have managed to escalate their already overwhelming chaos—people swarming everywhere in a cacophony of overlapping shouting and banging.

The center of the storm is Guardian Stiles, moving in a flurry around the first floor of the Hale house. Chris notices him running one hand over every object he passes, like the time he came inside the morning of the fire. Also like last time, he’s cradling Summer’s baby with his other arm.

“—sucks, doesn’t it? Having to watch someone you love in pain,” Guardian Stiles is saying over the noise, “but humans need to develop a pain response. I haven’t taken her pain away but I put a little cooling charm on her gums to give some relief.”

“Thank you,” Summer says, wiping wetness from her eyes. She’s perched on the couch by the fireplace, at ease with a stranger holding her baby. “Autumn’s been wailing for three days non-stop.”

“Aw, Autumn. Sh—oot. Have I been gone for three days?”

More like six. Chris nudges Peter with his elbow, a silent _told you so_. 

“You were going to say a bad word,” Cora pipes up from the small hoard of Hale children trailing after the Guardian. 

Reaching his free hand back, Guardian Stiles ruffles Cora’s hair and laughs. “That is a bold assumption, Miss Cora. There are lots of SH-words. Like sheep, Shirley, shortstop, shortcake, ship, shoelaces—”

“Sherlock,” Peter says.

Guardian Stiles twists on his heel, causing his hoard of children to tumble into each other at the sharp turn. He beams at Chris and Peter in a general cheery way, impersonal. “Newcomers! Here for the scent party or sandwiches?”

Chris leans back against the staircase railing, needing some stability at the undivided attention. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he crosses his arms. Guardian Stiles’ lips turn down for a moment and Chris panics, regretting for once that his resting face is a scowl.

Peter relieves Chris from the limelight, gliding across the floor to rub up against Guardian Stiles’ cheek. Chris wonders what the week’s worth of the Guardian’s stubble feels like. Peter’s face is generally smooth, shaved into a goatee on occasion. 

Peter’s hand creeps to rest on the Guardian’s hip. At the moment of that extra contact, Guardian Stiles gives into being tugged away by the teamed-up Hale twins clinging to the back of his shirt.

Chris fights a smile at Peter’s pouting. It’s petty, but after this hellish week of isolation in the Hale house, Chris is enjoying any slight torture against Peter right now, including the Guardian perpetually slipping from Peter’s fingers. 

“We can make sandwiches,” the twins say, guiding Guardian Stiles backward to the kitchen.

“I’m already on it,” Laura’s snappish voice rings out.

The Hale’s open floor plan gives Chris a mostly clear view of the kitchen. The majority of the adult Hales are cluttered in there, hastily putting sandwiches together. Bertie has an impressive meat stacked sandwich, probably beyond grateful for Guardian Stiles’ help with the baby. Chris sympathizes—he doesn’t have super-hearing and his ears feel damaged from all the wailing.

Sticking to blending in the background, Chris watches the Hales in the kitchen eagerly reach their hands out. The Guardian weaves a path into their touches, letting fingers drag across every bit of him. If it’s a sensory overload, Guardian Stiles doesn’t show it. Chris feels like he’s encouraging it more for the others than leaning into it. That could just be Chris projecting his own feelings, though.

Talia stands right outside the sandwich-making craziness, overseeing her family. Guardian Stiles comes to a full stop when he reaches her. She cups his cheek and he nuzzles into her palm. 

All the Hales relax in sync in what Chris assumes must be something going on with the pack bonds. The way they’re all connected to Talia tends to unsettle Chris. An unfamiliar _want_ flickers in him, curious to what the Guardian’s influence on a bond feels like. Discomfort over this foreign urge is thankfully disrupted by Summer’s baby. 

Guardian Stiles switches to hold the baby with both hands, holding her up in the air and making a silly face. “We’ve got a fussy baby,” Guardian Stiles coos. 

More than a few Hales, mostly the young adults, are starry-eyed over the Guardian interacting with the baby. Something coils uncomfortably in Chris’ stomach. It’s a nauseous sort of feeling. He thought he was over the embarrassment of how much of a clueless idiot he’d been when Guardian Stiles handed him the baby during the fire.

“Does little Autumn have any nicknames?” Guardian Stiles asks. He’s walking around in a strange pattern of swirls and swaying Autumn in the air. Whatever he’s doing, it’s stopped the beginning of a wail.

“Crybaby,” a kid boldly says before ducking behind Cora.

Guardian Stiles laughs. “Are you a crybaby?” He cradles the baby back in his arms, his eyes only on her. “I’m a crybaby, too, so we’re a match made in heaven.”

_Match made in Heaven_ , Chris distractedly notes. The Guardian’s dropped a few human phrases, though whether he picked up on Peter’s Sherlock reference, Chris hadn’t been able to tell.

“I’m a crybaby,” Olive’s Were twin exclaims, oblivious to the insult. 

Guardian Stiles shifts the baby into a one-arm hold and extends his other arm to the Were twin. “Low-five for team crybabies! How’s my sweet Clementine doing?”

The Were, Clementine, grabs onto Guardian Stiles’ hand instead of slapping it. Olive hurries to grasp her twin’s other hand. The Hale children quickly fall into a line of holding each other’s hands in a chain with the Guardian at the start. Guardian Stiles rolls with the new development. He laughs so freely with children, a raw delight that’s absent in his upbeat chattering and scenting process. He snakes around the house in sharp turns, causing the line of children to slide on their feet and fumble to keep up. Cora giggles like Chris has never seen. 

What is it like to be a child basking in the attention of a legend? More accurately, a legend basking in their attention.

A loud rumble, nothing like a Were’s growl, breaks the light atmosphere. Guardian Stiles’ face flushes, turning beet red at his stomach rumbling again. The adults are on the children in an instant, swooping them up and carrying them away. Talia herds the Guardian into the kitchen. Dozens of sandwiches are thrust in his face.

Bertie steps in to take his child. Chris pays attention to the way Guardian Stiles’ arm curls around her tighter for a fraction of a second. His flushed face tightens and then he’s kissing her forehead, handing the baby over with a smile.

He accepts a sandwich from Laura. Summer hands him the one Bertie made.

“Anyone have a mug? Like, a traveler coffee mug?”

_Very human_ , Chris thinks.

Peter smoothly hands over exactly what the Guardian asked for. Chris softens with amusement. He’d been keeping a distracted eye on Peter hovering in the background of the kitchen. He’d forgone the sandwich competition, focusing on anticipating anything else the Guardian might ask for. There’s a small tower of nutrition bars and other packaged snacks, a few bottles of water and juice boxes.

Peter catches Chris’ gaze with a smug look and Chris shakes his head fondly. Peter smirks.

Squealing draws Chris’ attention away from Peter and to a thick grey substance swirling in the air. It spins around until the lumps become pure liquid, pouring down into the traveler mug. Guardian Stiles tosses Bertie’s sandwich up and Chris watches in disgusted fascination as the Guardian clenches an empty fist. The sandwich twirls around his head like it’s inside an invisible blender, becoming a similar grey mush to fill the mug up to the brim.

“Great!” Guardian Stiles claps his hands, grinning. “I need a quick talk with Alpha Talia and our Left Hand and then it would be so, so _super_ awesome if I could take a shower. And if anyone has spare clothes I can borrow? Men’s, women’s, I do not care as long as it fits and is blood-free.”

Chris steps away from the stairs, avoiding the stampede of Laura and young Hales scrambling up to their rooms. The twins dart up as well.

Peter has the insufferable cat that got the canary grin Chris expected for being personally picked out. He sticks a straw in the Guardian’s mug and curls his fingers around the Guardian’s elbow, guiding him to Talia, who gestures to the backyard’s door. 

The Hales shamelessly go to watch from the window. Chris debates how to subtly join them.

“Hey, let’s show Guardian Stiles respect,” Thomas says. “Let’s get a shower ready—towels, toothbrush and paste, any bathroom products you want to offer. Derek, why don’t you go check in with your sister to make sure your packmates have the right sized clothing.”

The Hales follow Thomas’ orders. Derek, who Chris hadn’t seen, slinks from behind the refrigerator and sullenly makes his way up the stairs. Thomas looks to the younger children at a loss. Cora’s side-stepping her way to the door.

Guardian Stiles opens the back door and says, “Hey, pups, who wants to grab me their favorite books?”

The kids scramble downstairs to the library. Cora races upstairs. Guardian Stiles glances at Thomas and says, “You might as well come outside.”

Thomas doesn’t hesitate to take the offer. Left alone, Chris makes his way to the back door, silently opening it a crack.

Guardian Stiles sits on the ground, sucking greedily at his sandwich mush. He doesn’t look like he’s particularly enjoying it. Hunger pains from starvation? Not used to the taste of food from around here? 

“So,” Guardian Stiles says, smacking his lips after a long sip of his sandwich smoothie, “what are our thoughts on digging up bones?”

Reeling from what that question means, Chris startles at a voice coming from behind him.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Chris bites his tongue in surprise, hard enough to draw blood. Swallowing the coppery taste, he regrettably turns his back to the backyard door and faces Summer. Chris feels his dad’s disgust for allowing an untrained human to sneak up on him. 

Summer rummages through a freezer from one of the many fridges. Chris flip-flops between assuming Summer forgets about Were’s super abilities or if she simply doesn't care.

Quietly clearing his throat, Chris hopes the Weres outside are focused enough on Guardian Stiles that they don’t listen in. “What’s nice?” he asks.

“That he likes us.” Summer pulls out a teething ring and sets it on the island counter. Pulling her hair up in a messy bun, she smiles softly at Chris. “I was a little worried,” she confesses. “I know his duty is to look out for everyone here but I thought maybe he’d look down on humans. But he’s so kind.”

Chris’ gaze flickers briefly to the teething ring. He nods, not knowing how to respond. He’d always thought _if_ a Guardian ever appeared here, the only form of kindness they’d give would be a reluctant willingness to interact on rare occasions. It’s why he wasn’t so surprised or bothered by Guardian Stiles disappearing off into the woods for days. 

“It is nice,” Chris says. At Summer’s brilliant smile, he adds a little louder, a little less stiff, “It’s also nice that everyone’s finally calmed down.”

Summer laughs. “The pack seriously needs to take a chill pill.” Sighing, she picks up the teething ring. “Speaking of chill…”

A piercing wail echoes throughout the house, promptly followed by mixed shouts of _Auntie Summer_ and a few calls for _Guardian Stiles._

Chris hears Talia and Thomas protesting outside, like Guardian Stiles wants to be at the children’s beck and call.

Chris misses Summer’s exit, busy eyeing the door to see if Guardian Stiles bursts through. 

Turning to Peter’s offerings, Chris pushes away his disappointment at the door staying mostly closed. He finds a bag and starts packing in the water and juice boxes. He steals a few more liquid foods—yogurt and a few jars of baby food—to go along with the protein bars. 

♨ ♨ ♨

_News travels fast through camp in general. With his magic-twin pouring themselves into the connection process, he’s had to pick up more and more of their responsibilities, including being the eyes and ears of the camp._

_The community’s whisperings of an ambush reach him quickly. The spreading anger and fear contradict the wards not raising any alarm bells for danger. He sprints across their territory and pushes through division two’s fighters._

_The two intruders ambushing are fighting defensively, their skills impressive despite clearly losing. It takes a second for the familiarity to click._

_“Oh my god,” he wheezes—from running and overwhelming laughter. “Everyone stop! CEASEFIRE!” The fighters follow his orders, waves of relief and anticipation rolling off of them as well as everyone within hearing distance. He’s a pillar of power in the community. More importantly, he’s the source of humor and the camp is catching on to his excitement. “Speak of the devils and the devils shall appear! Yo, guys, these are the dudes I was talking about last night!”_

_The “intruders” gape at him with bewilderment and some emotion he’s not quite sure of. One of his friends, currently in a “with benefits” situation with him, pops up from seemingly nowhere, full of delighted intrigue._

_He puts on his official voice, rushing through the motions, “I, member of the Original Council, Second in Magic Command, Head of Beacon Hills Faction, and General of Division Three, declare safe passage for these two. I uphold responsibility for personally vouching for them.” Stripping off his I’m-Important-Listen-To-Me-Blah-Blah mask, he bounces on the balls of his feet. “As me,” he tells everyone, “the light of_ all _your lives, I give full permission to have fun with these two idiots!”_

_He gives the soon-to-be victims of excited interrogation a cheery double thumbs up and shouts, “Cool to see you guys got your shit together!”_

_If he were kinder, he’d swat away on-lookers and escort them to the refugee center. He’s kind but considering their past, he’s not_ that _kind. Besides, the camp needs some entertainment._

_He needs to go report this to the Council. After he’s done laughing his ass off, first. God, the amount of love radiating between those two—what a fucking plot twist._

➼ ➼ ➼

“Okay. Thanks for answering my call.”

“No problem, Argent, er, Chris. You know my lips are sealed and I’ve always been here for you since, er, y’know. Ha, you’re not going to leave me hanging with your fancy tree fairy, right? Ditch me for the portal?”

Chris forces a chuckle. “As long as you keep making those arrows, you’ll never get rid of me. I’ll call you in two days.” Chris hangs up before another probing question disguised as a joke comes up. 

_Fancy tree fairy_ is probably the mildest title he’s heard in the past week. If he were in the Hale house, anyone listening in would be enraged at Chris not correcting the blatant disrespect. Peter would be pissed but he’d at least understand on a logical level. The less the Hunter world and the different supernatural mercenary circles know about Chris’ life, the better and safer they are. 

Until he’d been disowned, Chris had always corrected people on supernatural facts based on the Hunter bestiary. He was Gerard Argent’s annoying know-it-all play-by-the-books kid. Things changed when he became involved with Peter. Big Hunter families shunned him and most of the good Code-following Hunters avoided him in fear of Chris’ dad. Chris has a handful of Hunter contacts but every interaction is a minefield.

He learned that early on from off-handedly pointing out all Weres being able to shift into a full wolf is a myth. It’s common knowledge that wolf-shifting is a rare ability, a fact Chris has known since he was a toddler. The Hunter he mentioned that to chewed Chris out, accusing him of boasting that he’s “superior” to all Hunters because his partner is a Were. _Obviously_ , all of Chris’ knowledge has to have come from Weres themselves, of course. Chris isn’t competent from years of studying the supernatural world since birth—he’s just a Werewolf’s pet.

In an effort to adapt, he’s slowly been making his way into the supernatural mercenary scene. It’s as tricky, perhaps more so, building trust with decent mercenaries as it is with Hunters. They’re wary of Chris’ past and the fact that he’s seen as strongly aligned with the Hales instead of working on his own as they do. He’s had a few people purposefully give him wrong information or try to use him for information on the Hales and Werewolf secrets.

So, Chris treads carefully with those willing to speak with him. Learning how to hold his tongue did not come easily, and he still struggles with it.

If Chris starts pointing out the title is _Guardian_ in all his phone calls and emails, Hunters will see it as him insulting them and loudly proclaiming that he's a close confidant of Beacon Hills’ Guardian. At best, they’ll paint him as a lost cause, a brainwashed airhead that attacked them for making a small joke about supernatural culture. At worst, they’ll spread word that Chris is close to the Guardian and pin him on every Hunter’s radar. Supernatural mercenaries are along that darker line—analyzing everything Chris says to figure out how much he knows and tricking him into slipping up and giving away Guardian knowledge.

Chris just wants to be a fucking professional. He’s exhausted from all the extra navigating he has to do on top of his usual careful navigating. 

Being confined in the Hale house, he’d worked on writing down everything he knows, and communicated through emails. The past two days in his and Peter’s apartment, plus the day he’d had permission to be in Peter’s soundproof study, he’s struggled with the difficulty of phone calls. With the amount of fake chuckling he does to dodge answering questions, Chris isn’t sure he knows what a genuine laugh is anymore.

He drops into his desk chair and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off his migraine. He’ll swallow some ibuprofen after he scribbles down the information he gathered from his recent phone call. The Hunter had seemed oblivious to it, but the commissioned bullets he’d mentioned were a specific mixture that Chris is pretty sure works best when combined with magic. He’d just said one of the Code-following families paid for it. Chris knows that family doesn’t dabble in magic. He also knows they have a rule against communicating with Gerard’s disgraced son.

Fantastic.

Chris takes time to write down the portal comment as well. That’s becoming an issue to expect and prepare for redirecting topics without looking suspicious.

Nearly every person he’s spoken with has joked about a portal, digging for a confirmation or denial. The portal had been the center of Chris’ dad’s obsession with Guardians. His hope in stationing Chris in Beacon Hills wasn’t about kidnapping the Guardian for their powers but for access to where they came from. The popular theory, by both Hunters and Supernaturals, is that Guardians live somewhere similar to a Fae’s plane of existence. Either Guardians are born there as a specific species or they were snatched by a secret supernatural society as babies and raised in a different world. 

Some people believe when a Guardian arrives, they keep the portal to that plane open, and the supernatural communities that live by the Nemetas are allowed access to it. As with all Guardian knowledge, the Nemeta communities are tight-lipped on the portal rumor, letting public theories run wild. In his frustrated moments, Chris thinks the Nemeta communities aren’t tight-lipped—they’re as clueless as everyone else. Chirs has no idea if there’s a portal and neither do the Hales. Beyond Guardian Stiles being a powerful Spark—information Chris will _never_ spill, not even by accident—the Hales haven’t learned anything new.

Hand cramping, Chris sets his pen down and checks his watch. It’s four hours later than he expected. Having the privacy of the apartment’s office has helped him accomplish more in the past two days than the week at the Hale house. The four walls of the office are covered in all his papers, finally laid out to be seen all at once, along with sticky notes, photos, and rough sketches of the hologram Hunters.

It’s utter nonsense to anyone else. To Chris, the room fills him with pride and a sense of success, of purpose. Four hours is longer than he’d meant to work nonstop, however. Chris checks his phone. No new messages. 

Great, Peter’s still pissed.

What does he want—for Chris to go gallivanting through the woods, hunting down Peter in his attempts at stalking Guardian Stiles?

At the insistence of the Hales, Guardian Stiles agreed to be brought lunch and dinner on the condition that the meals came from the children. Anyone else trying to find their way to the Nemeton still comes out of the woods dazed and confused to how much time had passed. Chris had hoped Peter would have given up by now but he still insists on his daily walks through the woods. He claims he’s getting closer each day to overcoming Guardian Stiles’ magic, that he’s figuring out the rules and pinpointing sources of weakness to get on the right path.

From what Chris has read up on pixies leading travelers astray, he thinks Guardian Stiles is playing a new game with Peter. It’s evolved to make Peter think he’s getting closer so it’s all the more maddening with each failure.

Chris’ phone buzzes. He fumbles, stomach dropping at an unknown number flashing instead of Peter’s. 

“Hey,” Chris answers the phone, dredging up his work voice. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“Heard Lighthouse Hills finally got their angel godmother,” says the least likable Hunter contact Chris has. Unfortunately, she knows all the ongoing secrets of the Hunter world.

Chris chuckles. “It’s been a crazy week. Last I heard, Dad was in Canada. Do you know a way I can get in contact with him or Katherine?”

Katherine and the rest of the dead Hunters are locked in the apartment desk drawer, the holograms sized down to a few centimeters.

Guardian Stiles scolding Chris for getting symbolic about holding the Hales’ almost-killers in the palm of his hand echoes in Chris’ mind.

“Katie-girl’s been incognito, kiddo,” the Hunter says. Chris jots down on his notepad that another Hunter remains unaware of his cousin’s death. “Heard some nasty rumors through the grapevine. A little about her, a little about you and your wolf-boy.”

Chris closes his eyes and forces a chuckle.

  
  


♨ ♨ ♨

_“I love when people don’t realize who I am. As if I’d be some smarmy people-pleaser—c’mon. Pft.”_

_“Diplomacy has its advantages.”_

_“Nah,” he says, grinning, “I like rubbing people the wrong way and being underestimated.” The gloomy presence sticks beside him, following the path that leads toward the center of camp and away from the tents. He considers saying fuck-off and stop using him as a way to avoid whatever petty fight happened. Having company might be fun, though, and maybe there is some truth to handling politics with more subtlety. “If you’re going to keep trailing after me,” he says, “feel free to go nuts with your pro-tips on diplomatic woes, oh wise know-it-all.”_

➼ ➼ ➼

A cold draft nudges at Chris’ consciousness. He groans softly. Why does everything happen when he’s half-asleep? First, when the Guardian arrived, biggest plot twist of Chris’ life—and Chris ended up in love with a werewolf, so that’s saying something. Next, there was the Guardian slapping him awake to the house on fire.

Chris decides he’s done. Whatever is going on—he’s not dealing with it. 

Peter’s voice, not remotely quiet enough or calming, says, “Go back to sleep.”

“I never woke up,” Chris grumbles.

Peter’s chuckle has Chris flipping over and cracking his eyes open to stare accusingly at his—boyfriend? Lover? Guardian Stiles is messing with Chris’ head with all the _mate_ talk. 

Angrily, but a soft anger because in half-sleep it’s hard to remember why he’s angry, Chris sits up and yanks the blanket back over the both of them. He tucks them in, cutting off the cold draft. 

Still grumbling under his breath, Chris adjusts to curling into Peter’s warmth. He closes his eyes and asks, “Shouldn’t you be at the big house?”

“I can sneak away for one night.”

“Half a night,” Chris corrects.

Peter presses his lips to Chris’ hair in an apology. Or more of an agreement that Chris is right. Apologies and Peter don’t mix together well. The same can be said about Chris.

“I’d sneak us away to an island,” Peter says.

Sleep tickles Chris’ brain, trying to lure his sleep-deprived ass back under. He forces himself to stay awake a little longer. He’s missed this game. They used to play it back when getting together was too messy of a thing to look directly at as a possibility. Peter usually chooses a small island for its ‘easy perimeter to defend’.

“Not too hot,” Chris says. “I like having seasons.”

“Trees that change colors,” Peter says. He always teases Chris for that. 

The trees in the preserve stay green year-round, their only change is some leaves turning a brittle brown and falling off. Chris likes Beacon Hills but constantly moving around as a kid exposed him to beautiful Falls of red and yellow and orange leaves.

“I want a rose garden.”

If Chris’ throat wasn’t so sore from fake chuckling, he’d laugh. “A rose garden?”

“If you’re going to make fun of it, you aren’t allowed in it.”

“You can have it if you take care of it.”

Peter’s quiet. “We’ll bring a gardener.”

“Somehow, that is the most unrealistic part of this scenario.”

Peter harrumphs. 

“Maybe Guardian Stiles can garden.” Chris yawns. “You wouldn’t mind him coming.”

“He does plant bones.”

“I think roses are different than bones.”

Peter playfully bites Chris’ ear. “I wouldn’t be so sure. He is the strangest creature I’ve ever met. And that includes you.”

Chris starts to stay Peter is far stranger than Chris, but—ex-hunter from the direct line of the biggest Hunter family. Asking about the bones comes next but he swallows it back, wanting to stay in this little bubble they’ve created. “I think he’s married to the tree,” Chris points out. “Might be hard to break them apart.”

“We’d be excellent homewreckers.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re the one that mentioned stealing him.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I just want roses.”

Yawning, Chris pulls the blanket up to his chin. Drifting closer to sleep he says, “I’m still annoyed with you.” Then, “What do you think he’d want?”

He’s asleep before Peter answers—if he has one.

_♨ ♨ ♨_

_“There’s a secret campground?”_

_“Not secret-secret, but yeah, kinda. It’s just the higher-ups or whatever have cooler tents.” He pops a blackberry in his mouth, hearing the unspoken question hanging between them. “Technically, I have a spot I can claim there.” At the next unspoken question, he rolls his eyes to the sky. “It’s more fun having sleepovers every night. I have enough friends to hop around.”_

_“You don’t want to be alone.”_

_“Oh sure, don’t ask your nosey questions out loud but go right ahead and declare your analysis on me.”_

_A hand takes his, pushing a blackberry into it. It’s one of the plump ones. He prefers them just-before-ripe, sweetly sour._

_Quietly spoken, carefully neutral, “You can always sleep in our tent.”_

_He eats the blackberry, too sweet, and doesn’t answer. He nudges a little magic into the bushes, ripening the berries._

_“Not as good as naturally grown,” he says, “but they’ll be sweet.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I have no idea why I had so much trouble with this chapter. I kept reworking the third chris pov scene over and over until yesterday I just finally put it off until later in the story and wrote sleepy petopher instead. 
> 
> So sorry I haven't got around to replying to comments. I really, really appreciate them all and they make my day. I'll try and at least respond with a heart from now on if I can't write out a reply <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! You can find me on tumblr @ [transtilinski](https://transtilinski.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
